


Who Says I'm Alone?

by thatsthefrailtyofgenius



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-15
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2018-08-22 15:18:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 21,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8290696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatsthefrailtyofgenius/pseuds/thatsthefrailtyofgenius
Summary: Q's life is not at all simple; with his family, his IQ, his inability to sit still, and his job, he's never been used to conventional normality. One might even say he's somewhat of an adrenaline junkie. But if he thought his responsibilities were weighing before, he can't even begin to imagine what's hit him this time.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well would you look at that, I'm taking on another WIP when I have a billion other responsibilities, a dissertation to plan and write, and 8k words to bung out for uni assignments. I'm such a good adult. 
> 
> Regardless, these are my life choices and I'll just have to deal with it. 
> 
> I don't know how frequent updates will be, so I'm going to have to ask you guys to be patient with me on this one, but I'm pretty into this fic at the moment, so I'm really hoping it'll stick. 
> 
> If you have any questions, feel free to ask me on here, or you can find me on tumblr; my url is snakesandcocacola. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, and, as always, enjoy.  
> Dee xx
> 
> P.S the beginning of the second scene is inspired by this (http://snakesandcocacola.tumblr.com/post/142293068233/bombtastic-buffy-whimsycatcher-i-didnt) amazing piece of art by the wonderfully talented whimsycatcher on tumblr.

“Sir.”

Her voice only pulls his attention away from the new algorithm he’s working on because it’s the first one that’s said anything in around eight hours. He glances upwards and blinks. Sighing, he takes his glasses off and rubs at his eyes. Then he grabs his coffee where it sits on the USB warming deck, taking a long swig from it and placing his glasses back on his nose.

“Right, where is he?”

“Mexico, Sir. He’s collapsing a building in the middle of El Dia De Los Murtos.”

“Alright, everyone get going on damage control.”

“Sir,” Simon asks “should we inform-”

“No one else. We need to contain the situation first – ah, 007,” he gets cut off when the sound of gunshots over a radio fill the room, “long time no see.”

“How the bloody hell did you hack into my damn comm – fuck! OW!” Bond growls, and more gunshots go off, accompanied by the sounds of fighting and grunting and distant explosions; the soundtrack to Q’s life, it seems.

“Don’t ask stupid questions. What on earth are you doing in Mexico on The Day of The Dead, to quote Matthew, ‘blowing shit up’?”

Matthew grins up at him from the pit of desks, laptops, and colleagues, nodding at him, giving him a thumbs up. Q nods and shoots him a sarcastic smile in return.

“I’m handling something,” Bond coughs, and he’s clearly running. Mostly likely across, over, or around the edge of a very high building with no professional equipment.

“That’s my job, 007. Disengage and get your ass back to England right now, or I’ll come over there myself and bring you in personally.”

“I like the sound of that.”

“I don’t. And you won’t either, when M gets his hands on you. I don’t think you’re fully aware of how painstakingly under the thumb we are.”

“You sound upset,” Bond yells, apparently having engaged in combat again; either that or he’s hanging off of some sort of airborn or collapsing moving object, “you work too much. Perhaps you should get some more sleep-”

“Perhaps you should stop misbehaving and have some respect for the fact that our entire careers are on the line. I have a mortgage now, James! I have two cats to feed,” Q’s voice gets louder, the interns sharing awkward and amused expressions with each other.

“That’s adorable; they must be new because they weren’t at your flat last time I was there. What are their names?”

“Andrew and Neil,” Q says, distracted for a moment, “but that is irrelevant. James, I’m serious, I – what the bloody hell are you doing now?”

“Assassinating someone,” he replies, yelling over the sound of helicopter propellers, “blowing shit up.”

“I swear to god-”

“Please don’t, I might be dead in a moment.”

“James!”

“I’ll come home. Just let me land this damn thing and kill a couple of people, and I’ll come home.”

“James, you can’t crash land a helicopter in the middle of one of the most populated cities in the world in the midst of one of the most celebrated and sacred festivals in Mexico’s cultural history! Stop, just stop!”

“Rather too late for stopping now, Q,” he makes a triumphant noise, “there you go, see. All sorted. I’m on my way now.”

“You had better hide, Bond, because when I find you I’m going to roast you and feed you to my malnourished interns”

“I look forward to it, Quartermaster. As long as there’s whiskey.”

“There’s always bloody whiskey. You keep it in the third cupboard to the right in my kitchen.”

“Leave the latch off.”

Q swears at him before hanging up, tugging the microphone from his head and glaring his staff out of staring at him. Fucking double ohs and their damn adrenaline addictions. Still, he has to admit, he’s looking forward to the whiskey.

* * *

 

Honestly he didn’t know why he expected James to use the actual door; any sane person would have learnt by now that James Bond doesn’t do anything quietly or conventionally. Q wonders if that’s why he subconsciously moved his shotgun from the top drawer of his bedside table, to the sheath strapped to the wall behind his pillow before he settled down to sleep. Most likely.

So of course, when James comes tumbling through his bedroom window covered in blood and smearing it over the curtains and window pane, Q is up and plastered against his wall pointing his gun through the glass in the space of a few seconds. He breathes heavily, adrenaline injecting itself into his veins where he braces himself on the mattress on his knees and grinds his teeth at the bullet that smashes through and hits his door.

His eyes scour the street sideways, following every twitch of movement, every damn whistle of the birds in the trees across the road. He spots it, and pulls the trigger immediately, swearing as he hears a small yelp of pain and a loud curse word from behind the bins.

“Am I in trouble?”

“So much trouble.”

“Sorry.”

“If you bleed all over my carpet you’re paying for a new one.”

Q ducks slightly, still holding the gun, and reaches for his phone, dialling it and backing up against the wall again, eyes trained on where he’d shot at, waiting for someone to pick up.

“Quatermaster, what could you possibly want at three thirty in the morning?”

“Bond brought one back again.”

“I didn’t fucking mean to! They’re pesky little shits.”

“For gods sake, how did they follow him?”

“I’m a little short on the details right now. I think I wounded one of them, but you’ll need to send a team over to my place; I’m rather unsure he’ll be – fuck.”

Another bullet comes through the window with a bang that makes him flinch. It barely brushes one of the curls hanging over his forehead and he stays frozen for a single moment, eyes wide.

“I don’t see a glass of whiskey anywhere.”

“You’re lucky I haven’t smashed the damn thing over your thick skull yet. Jesus, James, what on earth is going on? I thought you left your assailants in Mexico!”

“So did I.”

“We’re sending agents to you now, Q. Is there anything else worth mentioning?”

“Paramedics,” Q grumbles, as he ducks and dodges another bullet, rolling to the floor where Bond is, huffing as he grabs one of his t-shirts and makes Bond put pressure on the hit. Q appears disgruntled at most, but inside he’s pumping with adrenaline, his head spinning slightly as he feels his fight or flight kick in and tries to calculate the pros and cons of each option.

“Can you get him out of there?”

“What’s the ETA on those agents?” Q asks, flicking his phone to loudspeaker and scuttling across to the other side of the room, still on the floor, reaching for his laptop, “get me R on the line and connect her to my second phone.”

“You have a second phone.”

“007 I advise you to keep your mouth shut whilst I still have a gun.”

“My Walther is in my holster but I ran out of bullets.”

“Of course you did. Tanner, where is M?”

“At home; he's being informed now. Moneypenney is on her way.”

Q sighs heavily, knowing there’s a reason Eve does desk work, and frustrated that she’s having to leave the safety of her bed to get back in the field. She is, however, one of his most trusted agents, and his closest friend. Not to mention that she’s one of the top most capable people in MI6.

“Bond, I need you to move in a minute. Can you stand?”

“Possibly.”

“Is that a yes, or an I don’t want to?”

“Both,” Bond says, and his voice is gravelly and nowhere near as clear as usual. Panic clutches at Q’s insides and he swallows down on it hard, wetting his lips and forcing his fingers to stop shaking as he shoves his laptop and most necessary equipment in its bag.

Feeling about the underside of his bed, he brings his hands back with a loaded firearm in each, remaining low as he goes to the bottom draw of his bedside table and retrieves the holster, shrugging it quickly over his shoulders and shoving his extra bullets in the back pocket of his pajama trousers.

“You have pockets in your PJs.”

“007 is demonstrating mild delirium.”

“Fuck. Okay Q if you’re going to leave, go now. Eve and a team are two minutes away-”

Tanner is cut off when two more bullets ricochet off the wall and Q flinches hard, letting out a string of curse words. He adjusts everything on his body so he’ll be able to use them properly, and grapples at James, doing his best to keep him low, practically dragging him from the bedroom.

“Don’t go wondering off, 007,” Q props him against the bathroom door across the hall, and stands up to half height, drawing one of the guns and gritting his teeth against the unpleasant chill of metal in his palm. He scopes his flat quick, breathing laboured and getting shakier by the minute. His hands are deadly steady though, and he returns to James immediately after getting the clear, gritting his teeth in sympathy as he hauls him to his feet.

“Keep your head down and move fast.”

“I know, Q, I’m not one of your sweaty interns.”

“I’d like to see you go head to head with Nala when she’s got access to a glock and a paperclip.”

James has the decency to look mildly alarmed as they scale the walls, keeping away from the windows and as much out of the firing line as they can. Q hasn’t even got any shoes or socks on for goodness sake; it’s the middle of October in London.

“Your four o’clock,” James grunts as they duck out from the double doors where citizens are hiding in the street behind walls and bins. Q spins, pushing James out of the way a little and firing on instinct, ignoring the way his stomach flips at the sound. There’s another high yelp of pain and some swearing from across the road and Q drops down a little more, grateful at least that James is lucid enough to follow him appropriately.

“Take the other gun,” he tells him, reminding himself that it’s not the time to be dwelling on the trail of fire James’ hand leaves on his ribs beneath his t-shirt as he slips the other gun from its sheath and cocks it ready.

“What’s going on-”

“MI6,” Q hisses at Britain’s loyal tax payers, “shut up.”

They do as they’re told.

“Q if Bond is the target-”

“I know, I know, I’m moving as quick as I can. Do any of you have a car around here?”

The citizens look incredulously confused and alarmed for one small moment before a young Indian man wearing a rebok tracksuit and an Obey snapback reaches into his jeans and slips out an Audi key.

“007, you have your ID on you?”

“Possibly.”

“007; that some freaky code name or some shit?” a young girl with large hoop earrings asks.

“Fuck sake,” Q breathes, keeping one ear on the gunfire as he rummages in James’ blazer and retrieves his wallet. He flashes the ID at the kid, waiting for his confirmation, before he slips it in his own back pocket and takes the keys.

“Shit, 007, kindly stay awake.”

“I was resting my eyes…”

“Name the women you’ve slept with in the last six months – quietly,” Q hisses as James does exactly that. He huffs as James’ eyes continue to lull and he makes a split seconds decision with the little time he has.

“Ow!” James looks offended at the prick of the needle as the new serum biotech have been working on hits his bloodstream, and his pupils blow, “okay, I’m back.”

“I should think so too. Move your ass.”

James flanks him directly as they move, two blurs between shelters until Q finds the car he’s looking for. Still mostly crouching, he unlocks it, opens the door and slides in. James gets in the back, one hand still pressed to his bleeding diaphragm, the other totally stabile on Q’s second gun.

“Q?”

“R, fantastic. I need you to get me through traffic without causing a scene.”

“Reg?”

“BD51 SMR”

“Okay, let’s go.”

007 positions himself for better aim and Q keeps his head as low as possible as he starts the engine and puts his foot down, ignoring the beeps as he defies a dozen traffic laws.

“You’re telling me not to make a scene?”

“I’m improvising.”

“Is 007 alive?”

“Mostly,” Q remarks in a pitch slightly higher than his normal voice.

“For the moment,” James calls and R chuckles slightly as she creates a string of green lights for them.

“Where exactly is it that you’re going, Q?”

“Lead me for a few loops. Then we’ll get out and get the tube to headquarters.”

“Need me to call any other minions in?”

“Lexa and Nala,” he requests, “I doubt they’ll be happy to be woken up so early, but they’ve been whining lately that I don’t give them enough opportunities to further their experience.”

“Nala’s already awake; she’s been working on project Capri for twenty-four hours straight.”

“Scratch that, then,” he sighs, tutting slightly, “shut down her electronics and send her to bed.”

“Q, you’re not their mother.”

“No, I’m their Quartermaster. Contact Eliza instead.”

They drive all the way through London, in a total of five wide circles, taking a number of back roads until Q is sure they aren’t being tailed anymore. By the time they stop to get out of the car, whatever he’d injected in James’ arm is wearing off, and he’s feeling the lethargy of blood loss again, although the wound seems to be clotting appropriately around the bullet lodged in his ribs, and the pain is just about bearable.

“Come on,” Q says, opening the back door of the car for him, and crouching in an unaffordable moment of tenderness. James sighs slightly and opens his eyes where he’s a little slumped against the leather interior. Q’s laptop is hanging over his shoulder in its bag again, and his gun is back in its sheath. Q takes his other firearm gently from James’ hand and tucks that away too, “you’re going straight to medical when we get to HQ.”

“But-”

“I’ll shoot you in the leg and have you stretchered there if I have to.”

James just grumbles about grumpy Quartermasters and allows himself, in a rare moment of vulnerability, to be manhandled onto the streets of London.

They’re less than thirty seconds away from a subway, and Q eventually curses at him and ducks under his arm, wrapping one around his waist and taking the majority of his weight. It’s really only when they get a seat on the tube and it flits through its tunnels, that James starts to feel the heaviness setting in.

They most likely look a little ridiculous, what with Q in his pyjamas and no shoes carrying guns, and James all bloodied up in his suit. But if anyone stops or reports them, Bond has his ID, and it will take all of two seconds for someone to punch through Q’s clearance code and approve his own status. And by now, he assumes that a large portion of London is used to seeing shit they can’t particularly explain, and to brushing off the unsubtle secret service agents that reside in their city. They are sometimes the only ones keeping it safe, however, so in general they’re usually left alone.

“Up you get,” Q interrupts his foggy train of thought a little while later, and resumes their previous position as he helps him back to the relative sanctuary of MI6. Q is surprisingly strong, James notes, for someone so slight and lithe. Like a leopard.

The second they hit the back levels, they are descended upon by a team from medical. Instead of allowing anyone to prop him up the way that Q has been doing however, James shrugs them off and narrows his eyes, feeling only a small stab of satisfaction as they immediately back off a little.

“007,” Q tells him, “if I see you anywhere near Q branch before afternoon tomorrow, you will regret it.”

“Yes, dear,” he huffs.

“I expect reports every hour, Doctor Callahan.”

And with that, he leaves in the direction of Q branch, still barefoot and looking rather hilariously disgruntled.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter three will be up when I'm at least half way through chapter four.  
> Let me know what you think.  
> Dee xx

“Well you’re looking decidedly like the back end of a six car pile-up.”

“Charmed,” James snorts as he leans against the wide glass door of Q’s platform office, his left arm in a sling, a semblance of irritation to his expression. All 00s look this way after they’ve actually been forced into medical for more than a few minutes.

“Sit down would you; I won’t have you collapsing on my floor again.”

“That was a one off,” 007 insists, “it won’t happen again.”

“If only you were as good at taking orders when you’re on a mission.”

“The SIS’s prerogative,” James smirks as he settles on Q’s futon and watches him type away.

When 007 had originally started hanging around Q branch so fucking often, Q had been irritable and frustrated with his presence, finding it incredibly counter-intuitive to his work. Trying to code an updated program that would safeguard the entirety of British intelligence is rather difficult when you have James Bond leaning over your shoulder and playing with your things.

But eventually, Q had gotten used to being snuck up on; James tends to move silently, the agent’s prerogative indeed, but when Q had threatened to bug him with software that would set off an alarm every time he approached, 007 had adjusted accordingly, and they’d settled into something of a routine.

James now has a 100% ‘report to base immediately’ approval rating. He comes straight to Q to be debriefed before he goes anywhere when he gets home from a mission, even when he’s a particularly sorry mess of broken bones and bullet holes.

There are pros and cons to the situation, last night being one of those con situations, but it is more efficient, and M has been laying off the both of them ever since, besides, he has his own problems, what with the new foreign secretary flapping his ridiculous hair about all over everything.

“I’m surprised you’re not in withdrawal; how long has it been since your last drink?”

“I’m not an alcoholic, Q,” James rolls his eyes, but shifts and winces, looking a little worse for wear nonetheless.

“Sir, Nala woke up three minutes ago. She’s online now.”

“Bloody hell, tell her to get some breakfast first! And not that useless American pop tart shit she likes when she’s on the clock.”

“Yes, Sir,” Shannon replies from her headmic in the pit, and Q thinks his life would be so much less stressful if the people in it were better at looking after themselves.

“They haven’t started calling you mum yet?”

“You know that rhetoric has some seriously misogynistic implications, don’t you?”

James just shrugs and the smirk on his lips remains in place as Q shifts uncomfortably in his chair, sipping at his tea for something to distract himself with.

“Any luck on finding out who followed me home?”

“The facial recognition software is still running through the CCTV on my apartment block,” Q replies blandly as he goes back to his keyboard and goes over James’ most recent mission report, taken by Tanner about two hours ago. There’s nothing to suggest any reason why James would be tailed back to London, other than the implication that he’d simply missed someone off the deadpool.

“You know, for someone who nags almost everyone under his thumb to sleep and eat better, you do a rather shit job of it yourself.”

“Your concern for my wellbeing is touching, 007,” Q sighs, a small frown creasing his brow as he continues to try and get a hold of 002, who has been off the radar for nearly forty-eight hours, last seen in Bangladesh, “unfortunately, you are not my only agent, and I have two of you currently running around god knows where shooting lord knows who, making a bloody mess of international relations.”

“If you didn’t love this job, you wouldn’t do it.”

“It’s more complicated than that, I’m afraid,” Q sighs and they fall into silence as James flicks his legs up on the futon and closes his eyes under the flow of uv binaries gently.

“I wouldn’t get too comfortable; J’s been bugging me to send you up to him the moment I see you next.”

“He’s a total idiot but even he isn’t stupid enough to think I’d actually go up there straight away.”

“You’re not going anywhere until you’ve slept,” Q tells him simply, playing with the controls on the lighting of the room so its low enough for James to close his eyes and relax a little more.

“Yessir,” James snorts, reclining further and doing as he’s told.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enter: Maisy. Also Mycroft. 
> 
> This has helped me vent with how broody I am lately. I think even I love Maisy a little. 
> 
> Let me know what you think, and thank you for reading. Feel free to ask any questions, either on here, or on tumblr; I'm at snakesandcocacola.
> 
> Dee xx

“I trust you understand the direness of this situation.”

Q bites down a snappy retort and huffs as little niggly noises float from the Moses basket. He grits his teeth, figuring that there’s no better time to start than now. Bending over it, he lifts the tiny body, holding it against his chest, one hand supporting its back, the other supporting its head.

Fuck, the head. It’s so small, so delicate, so dependant. There’s something so powerful in the way the noises stop against his neck, replaced by a small snuffling and overwhelmingly tiny fingers curling against the lapel of his cardigan.

“I’m capable of knowing when something is important and when it isn’t, Mycroft, thank you.”

“In my experience, MI6 agents have trouble differentiating,” Mycroft replies from where he’s sat at the kitchen table, still dressed in his long woollen overcoat, hand gripping the knob of that blasted umbrella. Q swallows heavily and avoids eye contact, going to the kettle and starting it up.

“Would you like to see the papers?”

“Just send them to me,” Q replies, “I trust you won’t be offended if I don’t offer you a drink.”

“Your hands are rather full at the moment; I won’t outstay my welcome.”

“Never stopped you before,” Q snorts under his breath and Mycroft fixes him with a bored look.

“I appreciate that you understand why it had to be you.”

“I don’t understand any of this.”

Q sends a text to Tanner, informing him that he won’t be in work for a few days, and goes to his laptop on the counter, typing in the url for the mother care website and selecting a few essentials.

“There’s enough nappies and formula in the bag for the next week or so but after that I’m afraid you’ll be on your own. And you might want to inform any of your regular… unsavoury visitors that they should seize unexpected appearances.”

“If you’re referring to 007, he’s in Malta for the next twelve days.”

“I wasn’t referring to anyone in particular,” Mycroft lies calmly, and Q rolls his eyes.

“What’s her name?”

“Maisy,” he tells him, “I’m told she rarely cries when she’s not expected to.”

“She’s a baby, Mycroft, not a piece of tech.”

“Yes, well, details,” he huffs and stands, moving to the door to let himself out, “do call if you’re in need of assistance.”

“I doubt I’d need to call; your surveillance will alert you before I’ve even picked up the phone.”

Mycroft actually smiles then, a small, honest expression, precious in its rarity.

“Don’t break her, Q.”

“She’ll be safe,” he assures him, “you can bugger off now.”

He leaves the flat so quiet that Q can hear his own heart in his ears, a fast thudding, a type of adrenaline that’s almost on par with guiding an agent through a locked door and having no idea what’s on the other side of it.

His future is suddenly a vague impressionist painting with blurry colours and half-formed outlines. This evening he’d come home thinking about nothing but a glass of wine and hours filled with typing and code, comforted by the knowledge that he’d get up again at 6am to catch the tube to work, that his minions would have his first cup of earl grey waiting on his desk, and that by lunchtime he’d have averted an international security crisis.

Now he has no idea what time he’ll be awake, or whether he’ll even be leaving the house tomorrow. There will be no glass of wine and he doubts he’ll have any time to code, instead receiving a van full of baby things and sorting through a mountain of legal paperwork.

The upside, he thinks, is that he’ll have no time to cry. He’ll be too busy lying awake listening for Maisy’s breathing, for her crying indicating her next feed, to think about the fact that his sister is dead and that her daughter, whom he’s never even met before, is now completely and utterly reliant upon his ability to function and to keep her alive and well. He can barely do that for himself.

“Well,” he whispers, because the only people who will hear it are himself and the three-month old child curled against him, “shit.”

* * *

 

Mycroft had not been lying when he’d said that Maisy is an abnormally well behaved baby, but it still doesn’t prepare him for the loud wail jerking him awake at 1am. He’s out of bed in less than two seconds of course, and lifting Maisy from her cot.

There’s nothing, Q thinks, that quite compares to the deep seated clenching of alarm and pain that comes with the piercing cries of a baby directly against one’s ear. It’s so _loud_. He can barely believe that such a tiny, helpless creature can make such a resonant, deafening sound.

“Shh,” he says, rocking her with his body, because that’s what parents say to children when they’re crying. He checks her nappy and breathes a small sigh of relief to find it dry and empty. She’s hungry then.

He blindly flicks the lights on in the open plan living room and kitchen, and hobbles across the floor, bare feet padding over the cold tiles as he one handedly makes up a bottle and squints, head feeling like it will split open with the sheer volume of sound screaming in his ear.

“Just a second,” he mumbles softly, swallowing the gathering lump in his throat. He’s so tired and suddenly it hits him how incredibly alone he is. For a moment, he thinks about calling Tanner for advice; he’s got three of them. But he decides against it the second the thought enters his head, knowing that if he gives in and admits he can’t cope this early on, he’ll be utterly defeated.

As luck would have it, her cries stop the second the teat of the bottle hits her lips and he sits carefully down on the sofa, letting his head roll back on his neck and closing his eyes, the whole flat now filled with the sound of Maisy drinking, little throaty snuffling noises bringing him more and more into awareness.

When his head doesn’t feel so heavy, he lifts it again and looks down at her.

She’s perfect, really, with her flawless skin, pale with the Holmes genes. The thin hair on her warm crown is incredulously soft, and her big brown eyes stare up at him, wide and sparkling with breathtaking wonder. When her miniscule fingers come up to wrap around his little finger, he’s hit so suddenly by a rush of adoration, that he’s surprised his chest isn’t bursting with the sheer force of it.

Abruptly, he loves her with every bone in his body, every cell in his blood, every breath in his lungs. More than he’s ever loved anything in his entire life.

And he’s not ashamed to say that tears spill over and roll down his cheeks.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short and sweet. 
> 
> Let me know what you think, and as always, thank you. You're all awesome. 
> 
> Dee xx
> 
> P.S any questions, feel free to ask on here or on tumblr, I'm at snakesandcocacola.

When he next gets a chance to even touch his laptop, it’s the following afternoon. He’s been trying not to carry Maisy around everywhere, knowing that it can be detrimental to her development; but she cries at the top of her lungs every two hours or so, and his body is still freshly flushed with raw grief for his dead sister. He envies Maisy for her blissful ignorance.

The Mothercare van had arrived around lunchtime and he’d had to deal with Maisy crying loudly as they’d bought the items up and set them up for him. She apparently inherently dislikes strangers. Although, that seems to not apply to him quite so much.

Yesterday had been the very first time he’d even met her, but she seems to feel very safe in his arms. Which freaks him out even more, because she’s barely even aware of the world around her, but somehow trusts him. And he’s responsible for that.

Its only when he puts her down for a nap that his fingers grace the keyboard again, and when they do, it actually takes him a few seconds to calibrate their tactility. It’s only been twenty-four hours and already he feels like his entire identity has shifted and altered.

“R,” he says eventually, voice croaky with exhaustion as he adjusts the headmic near his mouth.

“Q,” she replies, and he feels a relief wash over him; hearing her voice is like a breath of fresh air, “how are you?”

“Alright. Is everything running smoothly?”

“Q, the world doesn’t fall to shit if you’re out for a day or two. I’m perfectly capable.”

“I know that,” he says sheepishly, bringing one hand up to rub at the itchiness of his eyelids, smiling a little to himself as both cats hop up on the sofa beside him and curl around Maisy.

It’s been trying for them too; they’ve essentially had their territory invaded by a very tiny, wailing infant, and he’s alleviated to know they don’t see her as a threat, but as something to be protected and watched over.

“How are the current missions going?”

“005 checked in this morning. Everything’s going rather slow on his front. 003 says she’s going to make contact again in about twenty minutes. 007 is on the line with Alishea now; I think she’s doing okay, considering.”

Q snorts, rolling his eyes.

“Rather her than me. Apologies for my absence.”

“I won’t ask,” she remarks, “but as long as you’re safe and alive, I have no qualms.”

“I am both of those things,” he assures her, “anything you need my help on?”

“All quiet on the western front, actually. Get some sleep, Q, you sound wrecked.”

She hangs up on him and he swallows, dropping the mic from his mouth and slumping back against the sofa. There are a million things he could be doing with this precious few moments of peace, but something in his diaphragm lulls and he suddenly has absolutely no energy for anything other than sleep.

* * *

 

In a stroke of luck, he wakes up an hour later, before Maisy does. Carefully moving her from the sofa beside him, he puts her in her cot and stows the baby monitor in the back pocket of his jeans.

He goes around the flat and begins to baby proof everything. He leaves all concealed weapons and defences where they are, but installs different systems that make things impossible for Maisy to grab at or hurt herself on.

When he’s done, he collapses at the kitchen table with a large steaming cup of earl grey, and simply stares into space for a while, listening to the silence and using the time to process the last two days.

Alayna is dead. So is her husband. A car crash, apparently; they’d both been killed instantly. Tomorrow, he’ll speak to Mycroft about funeral arrangements and, reluctantly, get a hold of Sherlock.

Dwelling on that, he makes the decision to leave the apartment at some point tomorrow, and take a driver – MI6 approved of course – to 221b. He briefly recalls John being good with young children, and he knows, that even if Sherlock will die before he admits it, he’ll be sad about Aly. He doubts Mycroft has even gone to the flat to speak with him yet, besides informing him of her untimely death.

And he’ll be damned if he lets Sherlock slack out on his uncle duties for much longer. They’ve all neglected their niece, and now more than ever is the time to change that.

He texts John to let him know, and receives a very kind approval and a string of smiley emojis in return.

He actually has to wake Maisy for her change and bottle around six pm, and they spend the rest of the evening cuddling on the sofa with the cats, watching Holly Willoughby presenting a new dating show on ITV.  


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well I'm on a roll. 
> 
> Sherlock is utterly speechless, Q wants to steal John, and there's a funeral. 
> 
> Let me know what you think, and as always, thank you. 
> 
> Dee xx

Getting Maisy ready to go out is one of the most stressful experiences of his life. He’s never been more grateful for google, which is how he finds out the recommended number of nappies, feed, and blankets to take with him.

When he’d been ordering her essentials he’d gotten three top of the range prams, all with different fixtures. During his free hours yesterday, he’d also installed some of his own features to them; bulletproof tech and lockdown convertible roof. But it takes him ten minutes to assess the weather along with which one is most suitable.

He wonders how he must look when he leaves, with a baby strapped to his front, a black duffel bag of essentials in one hand, and a ridiculously heavy pram in the other.

The black car is waiting outside the complex for him, and he smiles as Carter takes his luggage and loads it into the boot for him, letting him get settled in the front passenger seat.

“How are you, Carter?” Q asks when they’re navigating the traffic lights of London.

“Wonderful, thank you, sir,” he replies.

“I trust you won’t say anything-”

“Implied, sir,” Carter says, returning the smile, although he never takes his eyes off the world, “she’s beautiful.”

“Isn’t she just?” Q grins, and he knows it looks a little worn, the expression hurting his face where it tugs on the muscles, but he doesn’t care. It’s so nice, to see the rain hammering on the windshield, and to be in close proximity to another person that isn’t a crying baby.

“Optrex warming strips,” Carter says casually as he pulls onto baker street, “helps with the tired eyes.”

“Very good, Carter,” Q nods, storing the information away, knowing Carter has his own little girl at home.

Carter helps with the pram and the bag again, not leaving until he’s safely within the porch of 221b. His heart warms at the sight of Mrs Hudson greeting him, her gentle embrace as she avoids jolting or crushing Maisy on his chest, and cups his face affectionately. He bends down a little so she can kiss his forehead, and he listens to her chat idly as she leads him up the stairs.

“Well look at this little angel,” John says the moment he steps over the threshold. Without him having to ask, John takes the bag and pram, propping them against the side of Sherlock’s armchair, and unstrapping Maisy from his body, taking her from him. John doesn’t have any children, and neither does Harry, but he seems to know exactly what he’s doing as he sits.

“Sherlock,” John calls over his shoulder, “make your brother a cuppa.”

Q takes that as confirmation that Sherlock is in the kitchen, and he draws in a steadying breath, gathering his patience and walking through, sitting opposite him at the counter. Sherlock grumbles, but finishes what he’s doing with his telescope and stands, flicking the kettle on and getting the necessary ingredients.

“I’d hug you but you’d punch me.”

“Don’t be dramatic; I wouldn’t punch you,” Sherlock replies, still not quite making eye contact with him. When Q watches properly though, there’s a weariness in the way he moves, and when he focuses on his face, there are dark circles around his glasz eyes, “I would peacefully protest.”

“You’ve never been peaceful in your life,” Q snorts, but smiles gratefully as Sherlock hands him the cup of tea and sits in his previous place with his own mug. He’s immaculately dressed as ever, but has forgone his blazer and rolled the sleeves of his white shirt up to his elbows.

“I’m doing alright,” Q informs a moment later, when its clear Sherlock isn’t going to ask, “it’s been an… unusual forty-eight hours, but I’m getting the hang of it.”

“There was never a doubt in my mind,” Sherlock replies, a feigned, teasing wistfulness to his voice, and Q can’t help but relax in his brother’s presence, feeling more and more like himself by the minute.

“Her name is Maisy,” Q tells him, “she’s three months old and she’s perfect.”

“A fantastical statement,” Sherlock quips, “nothing is perfect.”

“Wait till you meet her,” Q bets, a small hint of encouragement as he gestures towards the lounge with a tilt of his head. Panic flits across Sherlock’s expression for a moment, but it comes and goes so fast, the average person – which is everyone in Sherlock’s eyes – would have missed it.

“I almost forgot how much of an idealist you are.”

“Has Mycroft said anything about funeral arrangements?”

“He might have mentioned it,” Sherlock waves his hand, “I wasn’t listening.”

It’s a blatant lie, and Q sighs sadly, but doesn’t push it, knowing that’s not the best way to deal with Sherlock and his aversion to sentiment, no matter how much he believes himself impervious to it. And he thinks Q is the idealist?

“I’ll speak to him later. Have you eaten?”

“Good god, is everyone taking mothering lessons from Mrs Hudson?”

“No,” Q humours him “I’m your brother, you idiot, it’s my job.”

“I thought your job was to hoard Britain’s secret service.”

“I’m not particularly good at it,” Q lets out a small, breathy laugh, “Maisy is actually proving easier to babysit.”

“A lie,” Sherlock remarks, but ducks his head in a rare moment of obvious vulnerability, struggling with himself before he asks the question, “does she know?”

“I don’t think so,” Q says, swallowing a gulp of tea, relishing the way it burns his throat slightly, warming his insides, “she’s not aware of a lot of things right now. All she does is sleep, cry, eat, and shit.”

“I thought you said she was perfect?”

“She is,” Q shrugs, “when you look at her you’ll know what I mean. She looks just like Aly, but she has her father’s eyes.”

“You’re not subtle.”

“I wasn’t trying to be,” Q smirks, once more feeling more like himself than he has in days.

“John,” Sherlock calls irritably, “bring her in, would you? I don’t believe my brother will stop nagging at me until I meet my niece.”

“It’s very surreal,” Q admits, regardless of whether Sherlock is even listening to him; he has a long couple of decades of simply talking at his brothers, trusting that they’ll take the information in if it’s important, and finding that, even if only for him, they make rather good vent posts, “only last week I was shooting terrorists from my bedroom window and dragging a wounded assassin along on the tube in my pyjamas. It feels like a lifetime ago.”

“I would imagine so,” Sherlock says in a bored tone, a small frown creasing his brow as John apprehensively hands Sherlock the child, as though he’s a grenade that will blow up when he touches her.

Q watches Sherlock’s face carefully when John guides his long pale fingers to support Maisie’s head. He holds her as though she’s a porcelain doll that will smash if he puts too much pressure on her. But when she settles in his arms, and her little hands come up to curl around his thumb, unreadable emotion floods Sherlock’s features, and his lips part slightly.

“I told you,” Q grins, watching his brother and his niece as he drinks his tea, “perfect.”

“You look tired, mate,” John says as he sits beside Q on the kitchen stool, close enough so that their shoulders are pressed together and Q can put some of his weight on John’s sturdy frame. He sometimes thinks, if Sherlock weren’t so besotted with the army doctor, he would have snatched him up for himself. Q loves John very much, and despite the fact that they don’t see each other often, he considers him one of his very best friends.

“Are you sure I can’t steal him from you, Sherlock?” Q teases, trying not to draw too much attention to the apparent internal crisis his brother is suffering across from them. Sherlock’s attention is finally broken as he glances upwards at John and Q sat together. John snorts and lets Q lean his head in the crook of his neck.

“No,” Sherlock replies, deadpan, and John smiles abashedly, rolling his eyes.

“One genius married to his work is enough for me, thank you very much,” John remarks, and Q pouts.

They stay that way for a while, Sherlock holding Maisy and looking like he’s struggling a lot with the emotions he claims so frequently that he doesn’t have, Q leaning against John, resting his eyes for a while.

Around lunch time, Maisy starts to get niggly and Q takes pity on his brother, taking her and rummaging in the duffel bag for her milk and a clean nappy. He goes about caring for her in the living room whilst Sherlock and John have a hushed conversation in the kitchen, and Q politely avoids listening in.

Whilst he’s burping her, his phone rings and he sighs heavily, adjusting so he can support her with one arm.

“Make it quick.”

“I thought you always have time for me, Q.”

He swallows and draws in a sharp breath, stroking the back of Maisy’s head with his thumb when she makes a noise that says she’s picked up on it.

“Believe it or not, 007, my life does not revolve around my agents.”

“Do you want to tell me why I had to be handed over to Alishea last night?”

Q does feel bad about that. James can function fine without him in his ear, he’s done it for nearly two decades. But he knows he would rather be guided by him than anyone else, and even though he knows he doesn’t really owe James anything, he still feels – rather unprofessionally he admits – more responsible for him than all the other agents under his care.

“I’ll tell you about it when you get back.”

“That sounds ominous,” James drawls, and there’s a hint of dangerous curiosity in his voice, mixed with a hint of concern.

“Isn’t there something else you’re supposed to be doing? Like assassinating someone?”

“I’m waiting on confirmation of something.”

“I’m safe, 007,” Q insists, knowing he won’t ask outright, “don’t rush anything on my account. You know I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself.”

“No one mentioned a security threat.”

“That’s because there isn’t one, honestly. It’s more of a family thing.”

“That’s not comforting, Q,” James huffs, “your brothers are insane.”

“I promise they’re not holding me hostage or getting me involved in anything harmful to my wellbeing.”

There’s a short second in which Q knows James is deciding whether to believe him or not.

“Just be careful,” James tells him, an honesty to his tone he so seldom let’s peak through his armour.

“Always,” Q says “come home in one piece, 007.”

“Always.”

* * *

 

The funeral is a sorry affair. Not a lot of people turn up; the Holmes family are private people, but it’s the first time Q has seen his mother since he left home when he was seventeen, and he deliberately avoids eye contact with her. Mycroft obliges her incessant fussing, but both he and Sherlock ignore her completely. Whatever tether they’d had with her had been snipped during childhood when she had finally gone too far in her alcohol fuelled neglect and almost drowned… well, Aly actually.

Q can’t believe she’s even been invited to be honest, but he’s not about to cause a scene at his baby sister’s funeral. Besides, most of his time is taken up by trying to keep Maisy quiet. John had come too, of course. Sherlock needed him, even if he wouldn’t admit it.

It’s a quiet, solemn service, and its over so quickly, Q has to be tugged from his own head when it’s time to carry the coffin to the graveyard.

John wordlessly takes Maisy from him, and Q swallows down on the lump in his throat, tears stinging harshly at his eyes as his sisters smiling face flashes across his mind’s eye. An old image of a much younger girl, with long curly brown hair and big blue eyes, a grin that humoured all three of her brothers for their stoic dramatics.

It aches like hell when the image contrasts with the sleek oak box she now lays in.

Sherlock takes his side, and Mycroft takes the other with one of Aly’s friends; a tall young woman with fiery red hair, brown skin, and high cheekbones.

By the time they make it to her plot – her husband had his funeral earlier on in the week and she’ll be buried beside him – Q has warm tears rolling down his cheeks and he’s shivering slightly. He steps back and John gives him a slight questioning look, silently asking him if he’s up to taking Maisy back. He just nods stiffly and sniffs, wiping his face with the back of his hand and holding his arms out for her.

She’s fallen asleep and when he holds her against him, he feels the strength returning to his bones, the warmth returning to his blood despite the way he can see his breath in the November air. He closes his eyes for a moment, just feeling the steady thrum of her tiny heart against his own.

“…ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life through our Lord Jesus Christ; who shall change the body of our low estate that it may be like unto his glorious body, according to the mighty working, whereby he is able to subdue all things to himself.”

And that’s it.

She’s gone.

Aly is gone and surprisingly, its Sherlock that presses his hand to the small of Q’s back, and guides him forward. He bends and takes a handful of dirt for Q to throw over the wood in the ground, and when they step back, his hand remains there, a gentle, grounding pressure. Mycroft stands on the other side of him, and when it starts to rain, he opens his umbrella to cover the three of them, Maisy, and John.

The rest of the party leave, heading back to the church to take taxis to the wake, but the five of them stay there, staring down at their sister’s name etched in the silver of the plaque of the wood, and remembering her.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> James meets Maisy.
> 
> Drop me a comment and let me know what you think.  
> Thanks, as always.  
> Dee xx

When Q returns to work, it’s with a high chin and narrowed eyes.

The narrowed eyes are partly due to the fact that he hasn’t slept in two days, but he tells himself it’s a fierce resolve, a daring, for anyone to say a single thing about the sleeping child in the carrier hanging from his left hand.

The halls of MI6 are muted as he walks through them. Not through lack of people, but through the glare he fixes everyone with. When he gets to third level, the word seems to have spread through the entire building, and no one even spares him a glance. But it’s the feigned kind of indifference, the polite sort that reminds people of something they need to be doing with their hands the moment his presence is felt.

When he gets to his office – thank god for his minions, who keep their eyes firmly fixed on their screens as he passes them – he places Maisy on the futon and lowers himself into his large leather chair, releasing a long, relieved sigh he didn’t know he’d been holding in.

Everything is exactly where he’d left it. The last few bits of paperwork meant for the morning following the night Mycroft had brought Maisy to the flat. The laptop on standby ready for him to connect to if needs be. The draws all still locked with the key that remains in the back pocket of his bespoke work trousers at all times. The spare Glock strapped to the underside of the desk should they be attacked again.

And the wall of monitors behind him, constantly switched on and running binary codes and background programs that keep the systems running smoothly.

It feels a little foreign to him for the few moments it takes for his laptop to properly start up again, but when he gets to typing in passwords and checking over the work he’d left for his team, he relaxes even further into his chair and smiles reticently to himself.

He isn’t even interrupted until Nala brings him his 10am cuppa.

“Sir,” she smiles, nodding and placing the tray of refreshments on the front of his desk “welcome back.”

“Thank you.”

“How did we do?”

“Well enough,” he replies, chin high again, although there’s a small smirk on his mouth that lets her know he’s deliberately downplaying their achievements, “nothing blew up, so I’ll take that as a good sign.”

“003 will tell you a different story,” Nala grins.

“Our job is to get the double ohs from a to b, whatever they do in between is more than often of their own doing.”

“007 got in this morning,” she informs him, her expression blank. She gives herself away by the way her tongue darts out to wet her lips and the way her eyes avoid his.

“What did he do?”

“Nothing,” she says quickly, fiddling with her fingernails “he was actually far better behaved than normal.”

“Then what’s bothering you?”

“He was asking for you,” she admits, finally looking up at him, “I think he’s worried.”

“He’s not worried, he’s curious. It’s just him being a nosy. I’ll deal with him.”

“Sir,” she nods again, bowing herself out of his office, but leaving his door open the way he likes it.

He gets half way through his plate of custard creams before Maisy wakes up.

“Hello trouble,” he grins as he stands from his chair and leans down to unstrap her from the carrier, lifting her. He goes to the door to peak his head around into the pit, making eye contact with Shariq, his youngest analyst.

“Be a good chap and warm this up for me, would you?” he says quietly, beckoning him up the short stairs. Shariq offers him a fond smile, his eyes flickering only briefly to Maisy’s head where Q’s fingers support it, before taking the bottle from him and nodding.

“Back in a sec, Sir.”

“No one else touches it,” he tells him firmly before going back into the office and returning to his chair.

“Alright,” Q furrows his brow as Maisy grabs at his cardigan and abruptly kicks him in the ribs, getting niggly without her feed, “be patient.”

She’s a Holmes, so he knows that’s a useless feat, but he has yet to give up on teaching her yet. He gives her the rattle she likes for the time being, and clicks around one handed for a few minutes.

“Much obliged, Shariq,” Q nods his thanks as Shariq knocks the doorframe and enters, handing him back the bottle, “there you go, you little shit, maybe you’ll quit beating me up now,” Q remarks as he adjusts her to lay in the cradle of his arms and props up the milk, letting her hold it for the most part.

Shariq snorts and rolls his eyes.

“My brother was the same,” he says, “little kickboxer when he didn’t get what he wanted straight away.”

“She thinks she’s some sort of princess,” Q says blandly, as though it’s a lost cause. Shariq grins and leaves him to it.

He puts Maisy down on her mat on his desk after he’s fed and changed her.

Whilst he catches up on his emails, she entertains herself batting at the mobile dinosaurs hanging over her head, little arms enthusiastically zapping back and forth. She starts giggling when she whacks one hard enough to trigger music, and he can’t resist getting his phone out to film her little outburst, laughing with her.

“You are disgustingly cute,” he tuts at her, rolling his eyes as she grabs at one of his fingers again, jerking it around a little.

He gets as much done as he can in between giving her as much of his attention as possible, clapping at her when she manages to wriggle onto her stomach, her head supporting itself for a few moments at a time before he has to save her from face planting the mat. Eliza brings him a report to finalise just as Maisy is doing so, and he almost freezes up at being caught in such a compromising position.

But Eliza just breaks out in a wide, bright grin and crouches in front of the desk on Maisy’s eye level, cooing at her and playing ‘got your nose’.

“007 is in the building,” she says, the smile remaining on her face, eye contact not straying from Maisy’s “his key card pinged up on the system a couple of seconds ago.”

“Wonderful,” Q remarks sarcastically, with a heavy sigh. He swallows on the anxiety curling in his gut, signing where he’s requested to and sending Eliza on her way.

He lifts Maisy from the mat and tidies it away, placing her back in her carrier and popping her dummy in her mouth, envying her as her eyes begin to droop immediately.

The app on his watch alerts him that 007 is approaching Q branch, and he grits his teeth, sitting up straight in his chair and readying himself for interrogation, making an effort not to squirm. He’s not even a little bit ready to talk about the fact that his sister is dead, or that he’s suddenly the legal guardian of a three-month old baby.

“Honey, I’m home,” James remarks as he leans against the doorway. Q glances up from his computer screen and then back again, feigning disinterest as relief washes over him at the sight of James in one piece, alive and breathing and relatively alright.

“Delightful,” Q deadpans, “go and get me a coffee.”

If James has noticed Maisy – which he absolutely has – he doesn’t say anything straight away. Instead he just smirks and rolls his eyes, turning on his heel, doing as he’s told for once. It’s when he returns and puts Q’s drink in front of him, that he goes to sit casually on the futon and drags Maisy’s carrier closer to him, placing one hand on her tiny foot and leaving it there whilst she sleeps. It’s such a strange development, that Q struggles to speak.

Instead, he wraps his fingers around his mug and brings it to his lips, blowing softly on it.

“How was Malta?”

“Hot,” James snorts, although he finally allows himself to look as drained as he feels, slumping a little, running his other hand through his hair. He’s not dressed in his usual immaculate suit, having switched it up for obscenely fitted beige chinos and a grey polo under a tailored black leather jacket, “how was England?”

“Eventful,” Q replies, sighing and sitting back in his chair, relaxing when James doesn’t immediately begin asking invasive questions.

“I can see,” he comments, “M says you had compassionate leave.”

“More like overdue leave. They’ve been trying to get me to take time off for a year.”

“Doesn’t look like you spent much of it resting.”

“I didn’t,” Q says simply, a warning edge to his voice. James picks up on it, and doesn’t push, his hand subconsciously putting rhythmic pressure on Maisy’s leg so the carrier rocks slowly back and forth in a soothing motion. The little noises of protest she’d been making before whilst trying to fight sleep, still, and Q raises his eyebrows but doesn’t mention James’ apparent ability to assuage babies.

“I’m coming home with you, if that’s alright?”

“You’ll be waiting a while,” Q tells him, “I have a lot to catch up on.”

“Q, I don’t think anyone would blame you for clocking off a couple of hours early.”

“ _I_ would,” Q huffs, sipping at his drink and revelling in the way the hot liquid trickles down his throat and warms his chest, further unwinding his muscles.

“You’re such a workaholic.”

“You don’t have a leg to stand on, 007.”

James just looks mildly amused and a little frustrated.

“Let me take her then, so you can at least concentrate.”

“You want me to trust you with my three-month old niece who you’ve only just met?”

James shrugs, like it’s an everyday request, like asking him to pin his washing out on the line or lock the door behind him.

Q scares himself even more when he actually considers it. He’s very tired, and as much as he adores Maisy, he’s spent almost every waking minute with her for the past two weeks. His body aches for a few solitary hours, where its nothing but him and the clacking of his keyboard, to lose himself in numbers and algorithms.

He weighs up the cons.

Mycroft will be livid with him. James is a walking beacon for trouble and violence, and that had been fine, when Maisy wasn’t in the picture. But now she is, and leaving her with him feels incredulously irresponsible.

“A few hours,” Q says slowly, resigning himself to the telling off he’ll get, “you drive exactly with the speed limit, you leave guns out of it unless absolutely necessary, and you don’t touch anything in my apartment. No drinking-”

“C’mon, Q, I’m not that bad. And I’m not stupid either. I’m capable of knowing when something requires seriousness.”

Q still looks hesitant as he stands and lifts the duffel bag, packing Maisy’s things away properly. James takes the bag and the carrier she’s sleeping in, pausing for a moment before he makes to leave.

“She’ll be safe,” he insists, looking him directly in the eyes, “I promise.”

Q swallows and suddenly feels incredibly uncomfortable. James says a lot of things ‘I’ll be home in one piece’, ‘I’ll bring all the equipment back’, ‘I won’t kill this person’. He says a lot of things, but none of them are promises, Q knows, they’re just supposed to stop him nagging or worrying. This is the first time James Bond has outright promised anyone anything in a long time, Q senses, and it’s this that convinces him, without a doubt, that Maisy will be protected and looked after whilst he gets through paperwork.

“Off with you,” Q sighs, bending to kiss Maisy’s forehead and waving them away.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q quickly finds out just how hard it is parenting a small child, James reveals more than Q expects him to, and naturally there's only so much of James' antics an exhausted twenty six year old with a teething baby can take.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea how I managed to write this chapter with how quickly my uni workload is catching up to me, but - actually, yeah I do, I avoided my actual responsibilities in favour of indulging in fanfiction.
> 
> Nothing new there then.
> 
> Thank you for reading, and please let me know what you think. 
> 
> Dee xx

When he finally gets home, its about nine o’clock.

That’s very early for him, normally, but he’s been away from Maisy for hours and after a while, the ache to see that she’s still alive and safe, had gotten too much to bear.

He has to admit though, taking the tube home on his own for the first time in weeks, had felt amazing. He’s missed the walk from HQ to the underground at night; London is famously beautiful once the sun’s gone down, and the lights against the backdrop of the Thames is a sight close to his heart.

But it’s been raining torrential for a few days now, and when he finally slips in through his front door and drops his satchel near the kitchen counter, he’s cold and soaked through and exhausted.

He scopes the flat for 007 and Maisy, finally finding them both curled up in his bed, snoring their heads off. It’s such a strange and overwhelming image, Q almost takes a picture. Instead, he places a single hand on James’ shoulder and waits for him to wake up.

 “Q?” he frowns a little, partially turning towards him and staring up at him through squinted eyes.

“007,” he acknowledges, “I’m surprised everything is still in one piece.”

“I resent your lack of faith in me,” he grumbles, turning onto his back and pushing himself up in a sitting position against the headboard, Maisy still sleeping soundly beside him.

“Cuppa?”

“Please,” James replies, reaching for his phone on the bedside table. As Q returns to the kitchen and flicks the kettle on, he notes that’s the first-time James has ever slept in his bed.

He’s come home to the allusive agent sleeping in various nooks and crannies before now; his bath, his sofa, even his wardrobe once. But never the bed. It feels far too intimate for some reason, like an invisible line has been crossed without him realising it. He swallows heavily and leans on the counter, closing his tired eyes and breathing in and out through his nose.

He knows it’s probably very irresponsible for him to be allowing this, not to mention unprofessional. Also, stupid, considering the incorrigible crush he has on his most troublesome double oh.

He’s been aware of the growing feelings for over six months now, it’s not something that’s new to him. But it had been okay, when he was on his own; he didn’t have to worry so much about the collateral damage James tends to leave in his wake. Now Maisy is the most important thing in his life, and he can’t be selfish. Not ever.

Tonight, however, he’s so drained, and James’ presence is addictively comforting after over two weeks of no one in the flat but him and Maisy, two weeks of grieving alone, two weeks of desperately trying not to fuck up whilst learning on the go. The best and worst two weeks of his life. He can’t physically bring himself to kick him out.

He’s tugged from his train of thought by the kettle informing him that it’s boiled, and he goes about pouring drinks. Carrying them back to the bedroom, he hands James his mug before grabbing some loose pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt. When he’s changed, he slips under the covers and manoeuvres Maisy so she’s laid on his chest, her surprising heft a warm weight against his heart. Sipping at his own drink, he finally lets himself relax.

“So,” James says a moment later, and Q audibly groans, sinking down further and pouting.

“Noooooooo,” Q complains, “I’m exhausted.”

“I’m going to need you to give me something, Q. I think I’ve been pretty tactful.”

“No you’ve been clever. You’ve waited for me to be all inebriated before interrogating me.”

James just smirks at him, rolling his eyes at his petulant behaviour and switching off the lamp, edging down so he’s laid on his side, facing Q through the darkness.

“Talk to me.”

“You’re behaving like a normal, well-adjusted person and its making me uncomfortable,” Q huffs.

“You don’t give me nearly enough credit. I am actually human, you know?”

“I would never have guessed.”

“Well excuse me for giving a shit about one of my only friends,” James snorts. Q is rendered totally speechless for a few moments, the words washing over him and clenching in his gut, making his heart stutter and his breath hitch. Maisy wriggles on his chest in her slumber and he lets out a shaky sigh, resting a hand on her back in comfort.

He had not been expecting that.

Q knows James spends a lot of time hanging around the branch. He knows James usually comes straight here when he gets home from a mission. He knows he trusts Q to guide him through a difficult situation. He knows James, at the very least, dotes on him and asks after him when he’s not around. He knows James keeps tabs on him.

The surveillance teams both of Q’s brothers have watching his apartment and following him around twenty-four hours a day also include at least two people under James’ payroll.

But he’s never actually stopped to consider that James Bond considers him a friend. A confidant. That he trusts him with other things too.

It’s a jilting realisation and it has him panicking for a moment.

“Thank you, but I’m alright.”

“I know that. That’s not what I was asking.”

Q draws in a deep breath and closes his eyes, sipping at his drink again and absently ducking his head to press a kiss to Maisy’s head.

“My sister, Maisy’s mother,” Q begins, forcing his voice not to crack, “she died in a car crash with her husband. Maisy wasn’t there, luckily. I’m told she would have died too.”

“So you got custody?”

“Aly’s request,” Q sighs, “Sherlock is a drug addict and Mycroft doesn’t have the temperament.”

“Shit,” James remarks and Q snorts, moving his head in agreement.

“Quite. Although I can’t say I’m not honoured to be her guardian. She’s rather charming.”

“Touché”

Q can hear the smile in James’ tone, and can’t help his own mouth curling in response. Maisy has this effect on people. She tends to win the hearts of anyone who comes into contact with her. It’s a powerful thing, really, when she’s only a few months old. Not even James Bond is impervious.

“When was the funeral?”

“Last week,” Q says, remaining composed, “it was miserable.”

“Funerals usually are. I suppose you’re going to put her in nursery?”

“I’ll look at MI6 approved nannies when she’s a little older. For now I don’t really trust anyone with her.”

“Except for me,” James points out, and Q is glad its dark enough for his blush to be invisible.

“Yes well, you’re an anomaly, 007,” Q sighs, far too tired to bother with much of a pretence, “and you promised.”

“I promised,” James confirms what Q had thought about earlier. It had been important and significant and Q isn’t going to take it for granted. That doesn’t mean to say he’s going to let an international assassin become a frequent babysitter.

* * *

 

The following four months go by in somewhat of a blur.

After the first few weeks, Q relaxes enough to let some of his minions watch Maisy whilst he works. She’s never more than a room or two away, and he has a baby monitor switched on at all times so he can hear her, but he settles back into his job rather quickly.

Despite his previous vow, when James isn’t abroad shooting people, he does let him take her for a few hours at a time, be it a long walk in Hyde Park, or a playgroup he’s signed her up for so she’s getting to socialise and be around other babies. That’s where he gains a new respect for MI6’s worker resources program. He hadn’t quite realised just how much support he can get should he need it.

They have lists of approved assets for almost everything; drivers to and from work, security, childminder services lead by ex-agents and staff who have worked with them for decades and are trusted enough for him to let himself breathe and know that when Maisy isn’t with him (still a rarity regardless of the assistance available to him), she’s safe and cared for by people who know what it’s like to be employed in espionage.

Mycroft had, as expected, gone a little doolally when he’d found out about James’ playdates with their niece, but Q had silenced him after a whole twenty minutes of lecturing, reminding him that he was handed the responsibility of custody for a _reason_ , and that he’s capable and committed.

It seems even Mycroft is not impervious to Q’s authoritative stare.

And Q has been introduced to a whole new level of casual exhaustion.

Before he’d taken Maisy in, he got on average around ten hours sleep every two days; now he’s lucky if he gets three or four. She’s teething. Loudly. In fact, listening to her wailing and crying at two am is harder on him than it is on her, and not because of the insomnia. He hates seeing her in so much pain, hates knowing that she’s too young to come out of that pit of despair once she’s dipped into it, and that whilst she’s coming on in leaps and bounds in other places, the both of them have never been so tired. Ever.

Q also thinks if he has to build Noah’s ark out of plastic blocks one more time he’s going to hack into international shipping and trading to discontinue all Fisher Price products. Theresa May can fuck right off; the Tories brought it on themselves.

Repetition, however, is key to Maisy’s development right now. She watches The Polar Express seven times a day, terrorises the cats by enthusiastically grabbing at their fur to steady herself for crawling, and presses the same damn button over and over and over again on her toy flip phone just because she seems to get satisfaction out of watching Q press his fingers to his temples and take deep breaths to grip his sanity. She is most definitely a Holmes.

She’s also a little shit. And he adores her.

But its exactly five days after she turns seven months old that Q really loses it with James again.

He’s on a mission, supposed to be rigging explosives in a warehouse. The instructions were to clear the building of innocent civilians, leave the damn hierarchy of neo-nazis where they are in their offices, and get the hell out before the bombs go off.

Naturally, 007 can’t leave it at that though.

No, he has to go back inside to save the daughter of the head of the organisation, despite the fact that she’s only recently had a change of heart and has actually been implicit, if indirectly, in the misfortune and exploitation of the people being tortured and used by the company in question.

Q’s running on less than two hours sleep in over three days, hasn’t eaten since the piece of toast on the go at breakfast, and has to work to the backdrop of Maisy screaming through the monitor from where Eliza tries to calm her in the staff room down the hall.

The snapping of his patience builds in his gut and spreads to his chest, but only splinters through his throat and trips through his mouth in a cutting voice spat down the comm.

“You’re suspended,” he says through his teeth, “for six weeks. On disciplinary leave. Report to M when you get back to England and don’t contact me for the next week. I can’t be responsible for my actions until then.”

Then he disconnects his mic and throws it across the room.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James is a very disgruntled double oh, and his aversion to Tesco's is in no way funny or adorable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had so much fun writing this chapter. 
> 
> I LOVE dark!James and everything, but I really feel like I want mine to be a little bit fluffier, without it being too ooc.
> 
> Thanks for reading, as always, and please lemme know what you think.
> 
> Dee xx

James hates this.

He hates getting off long plane trips anyway, but this is ridiculous. He can’t shake the dark twisting in his gut and the painful ache clenching in his chest. He’s used to going straight to Q’s apartment now. It’s one of his only constants.

He takes his constants seriously. Nothing in his life is particularly set in stone, but this always is. Q’s flat is always there for him. Q is always there for him. And when he isn’t, he feels the empty space like gaping holes in his bones.

Instead, he goes back to his own apartment, stopping off only to pick up a bottle of Jack from the local co-op. Ignoring the hastily stitched gash at his ribs, he drowns in alcohol and collapses in a barely slept in bed, and when he wakes up again, he’s screaming.

He manages to drag himself to the shower, but all he does is stand there feeling sorry for himself, letting the water wash away the sweat and blood, and wincing when it gets in some of his more troublesome injuries.

He does feel slightly better when he’s clean though, even moreso when he’s dressed in jeans and a polo shirt. His leather jacket makes him feel far more like _James_. The suits are nice, they’re a big part of his job and his persona, but there’s nothing for him, that compares to coming back to England and slowly shedding that mask.

Or as much of it as he can afford to rub off anyway.

MI6 is quiet at six am, but it’s never empty, and he makes sure he brings Eve a latte and a croissant when he steps into M’s foyer. She grins gratefully at him as he places them on her desk, and pushes up from her chair slightly to kiss his cheek. He knows she’s reading the brooding edge to his expression, but she doesn’t comment on it as she buzzes him through to M and settles back at her computer.

“Don’t sit down if you’re going to bleed out on my carpet,” M says as he closes the door behind him.

“I’m all patched up, sorry to disappoint.”

“007, what did you do? Why are you here so early? You report to Q now.”

“I did,” he replies, sitting in the chair casually and shrugging, “until he lost his temper with me yesterday and suspended me for the next month and a half.”

“Bloody hell,” M curses, finally lifting his eyes from the document he’s reading, glaring at him, “why can’t you just behave yourself? That boy works his arse off to keep you alive.”

“I know,” James tries to keep the frustration from his voice, “trust me, you can’t make me feel worse than I already do. I just thought I’d let you know I filled out the report and gave it to admin. You’re not going to make me hand over my gun, are you?”

“Asking you to give me your gun would be like cutting off a head of Hydra,” M sighs heavily, “you’re aware that if shit hits the fan I’ll have to go over Q’s head to put you back in the field early.”

“Things have quietened down a bit now, but yes, I’m aware.”

“Well it might be a good thing,” M remarks, sitting back and pinching the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb, “you’re due time off and I do wonder if sometimes you forget how to be a civilian.”

“I’m not a civilian.”

“You bloody well are now,” M huffs, “so do civilian things.”

“I’m not entirely sure what you’re suggesting.”

“Take a long bath, 007,” M rolls his eyes, “fuck around on the internet for a few hours, listen to the hit top 40 uk, get a puppy, see the new Marvel film, take the bus to Tottenham Court and spend that extortionate salary we pay you. Call it job research.”

“I’ve been doing this job for two fucking decades.”

“Act like it then, stop being a child.”

James resists the urge to pout and rolls his tongue around his mouth, biting down a petulant reply, nodding.

“Sir.”

“007,” M dismisses with a half-hearted wave, like he isn’t about to arrange for a surveillance team to follow him around for the next six weeks.

When James leaves HQ, he does something he hasn’t done in nearly seven years; he goes to a pub and buys a pint and a packet of pork scratchings. He sits outside with a cigarette watching the boats roam the Thames and aimlessly scrolling through a very outdated twitter feed.

Around him, there are a few other people sat on the picnic benches, smoking and sipping at glasses of Fosters and Carlsberg, typing away on their phones and chatting about their mundane lives.

His soul almost cringes in on itself when he forces himself to take a picture and upload it to Instagram, with a filter and everything. Jesus, he feels old.

When he’s finished, he walks to Westminster Tesco and attempts to calm the itching irritation of actually walking around with a basket on his arm, trying to remember the food and brands he likes to eat. All the while, a badly disguised tail in a snapback and sunglasses fails to look inconspicuous, spending ten whole minutes being unnaturally interested in a tub of Flora Lite.

James hovers near the whiskey for a while before he huffs to himself and decides on a bottle of Black Tower instead. He feels like a proper person when he buys two loaves of Warburtons, a packet of scones, some butter and jam, Fairtrade eggs and sugar, washing powder and Fairy Liquid, Alberto Balsam shampoo and conditioner, a packet of custard donuts, and a What’s On TV magazine. By the time he’s at the kiosk getting a multi-pack of Sobranies, he’s grumpy as all hell and ready to pull his own hair out.

He walks back to his apartment in Milbank with bags in each hand, disliking the way none of his palms are free for a gun if needs be, but grumbling through it anyway.

He considers doubling back and threatening the surveillance team into keeping their mouths shut. But if one of them is Ed, which it probably is, there will be a picture circulating the Q Branch group chat within the next few minutes, titled ‘007, regular guy’ featuring him brandishing 5p Tesco carrier bags full of groceries and looking like he wants to throw them in the river.

But he’s a civilian dammit, and if that’s what his job is right now, he’s going to do it well.

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm taking it slow today; the last twenty four hours have been extremely emotionally draining. 
> 
> But writing this helped. 
> 
> And if you're American, I'm so sorry. 
> 
> Let me know what you think, and as always, thank you.
> 
> Dee xx

James is swimming in Millwall when he gets the call.

Or rather, he looks at his phone after the showers and finds out he’s missed twelve of them.

“Who do I need to kill?”

“You’ll have a hard job shooting the government,” John’s voice is croaky on the other end of the line, which means he’s rattled, which is never a good sign. James frowns and drapes the hand towel over his shoulders, sitting down on the wooden benches.

“Explain.”

“Syria,” John says simply, and James’ stomach drops, his lungs freezing up. He swallows and ducks his head, closing his eyes and running one hand through his hair.

“I fucking told you, you should have gone for a secret service job.”

“You know I’d be shit at it,” John sighs heavily, “I’m barely good at what I do now.”

“Nonsense,” James replies, sitting back against the wall and trying to fight the anxiety twisting around his insides, making it hard to remain upright. He’s a good actor, there’s no denying, he can get the worst news and no one would see a hint of emotion on his face; but there’s no one else here now and his knuckles itch to slam into something solid, “you told me that lad you run around with who’s name you won’t tell me says you’re fantastic.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” John remarks, “I think it’s probably time I told you his name.”

“Why now?” James’ frown deepens, “the name of your asshole boyfriend has nothing to do with this situation.”

“James,” John huffs, like it should be obvious, “I want you to know who he is because he doesn’t do too well on his own and if you don’t check up on him he’ll spiral.”

“He’s your boyfriend not your child.”

“He’s not my boyfriend, for fuck sake.”

It’s a testament to how stressed John is that he didn’t correct him the first time, and James rolls his eyes, smirking despite himself.

“I’ll take you for a pint tonight then,” James suggests, his day feeling so much darker and sluggish than it did before, “you can braid my hair.”

“Fuck you,” John snorts, but James hears the small smile in his voice and takes it as a victory.

“The George at eight,” he says, and John makes a non-committal noise before hanging up.

* * *

 

When Q turns up at 221b with Maisy, Sherlock looks like someone stabbed him repeatedly in the gut.

He’s frantically steepling his fingers where he’s laid out on the sofa, stimming out all over the place, his expression manic. There are six nicotine patches along his left arm.

Q sighs heavily and places Maisy down in her carrier on the table, facing out of the window so she can watch the seagulls on the roof over the road. Moving to crouch in front of his brother, Q wets his lips and places one tentative hand on his.

“Where’s John?”

“Out,” Sherlock says sharply, like he’s far too busy in his mind palace for small talk.

“Where?”

“Pub,” he waves his hand, “one of his army dimwits.”

“Right,” Q says, “and you are doing what, precisely?”

“Working,” Sherlock’s voice gets more irritable by the syllable and Q clenches his jaw, nodding and pushing back up to full height, going to put the kettle on.

“I said I was working,” Sherlock snaps, and Q shrugs, setting up two mugs.

“I heard you,” he calls over his shoulder.

“You’re incorrigible.”

“Touché,” Q remarks, bringing the steaming mugs back in with him and moving Maisy to the armchair with him.

“She – you want her here when I’m like this?”

“Don’t be arrogant, Sherlock, you’re not nearly as formidable as you like to think. Besides, she’s going to grow up around you; she may as well get used to it whilst she’s young.”

“Mycroft will-”

“Mycroft will stay away from me right now if he knows what’s good for him,” Q cuts across, the first hint of calmly concealed anger seeping through into his voice, making him sound quietly dangerous.

Sherlock swallows heavily and pauses, before sitting up in a sweeping motion and reaching for his de-caff coffee, eyes hovering over their niece only briefly.

“He was here last night,” Sherlock says stonily, “he thought he owed us the courtesy of telling us in person. He assumes that overseeing John’s transition personally makes him less to blame.”

“I did attempt to block it,” Q says, “I got word of the order early yesterday morning. I even blackmailed M into getting me a sit in with the minister for defence. He pretty much ignored me.”

“Irrelevant,” Sherlock waves his hand again, “this was something even the Quartermaster of MI6 couldn’t stop. The call to arms was inevitable.”

“Is that what Mycroft told you?” Q raises one eyebrow, lifting Maisy from her carrier and handing her over to a reluctant Sherlock. He looks for a moment, as though he doesn’t trust himself to hold her when he’s so hyped up, but relaxes a second later, and settles her in on his lap, letting her tiny fingers curl around one of his own as she coos to herself.

“It is what I know,” Sherlock replies.

“He could have said no.”

“He’s John.”

“I suppose so,” Q says sadly, sipping at his tea, “perhaps it won’t be for too long.”

“We can only hope,” Sherlock admits, and Q is momentarily taken aback. Sherlock so rarely vocalises his emotional wishes; this is the raw revelation of a truly terrified man. A man about to let his soulmate run off to one of the deadliest warzones in modern history.

“I suppose you reacted by being cold and calloused?”

“John is mad with me,” Sherlock confirms nonchalantly, “I took on a case this morning and I haven’t spoken to him since.”

“You won’t let him help?”

“It’s not something he can assist with.”

“You’d be surprised,” Q tells him, “he’s very clever you know, in his own way.”

“I am aware,” Sherlock says through gritted teeth, but he slumps back against the sofa again, knees gently bouncing Maisy on his lap as she claps and giggles slightly.

“Perhaps he’d benefit if you told him that once in a while.”

“John knows me; I don’t have to verbalise it.”

“You underestimate how human he is,” Q sighs. “just like you underestimate how human you are. Our intelligence makes us lonely, Sherlock, but you don’t have to be alone.”

“Alone is safe,” Sherlock snaps, narrowing his eyes, “it’s free of sentiment and chemistry.”

“You’ll still be you if you let yourself love, you twit,” Q rolls his eyes, “you are truly infuriating sometimes.”

“I – it’s easier this way.”

“You know it doesn’t work like that, Sherlock. You can’t just turn it off and compartmentalise all the time. You don’t get a choice in who you fall in love with. Not even you can stop it. And it’s far too late now anyway. You and John are an orbit in and of your own. Shutting yourself off from him now will only make you miserable when he’s gone. Far more so than if you say goodbye to him properly and don’t treat him like an inconvenience you’re trying to shake off because he means you have something to lose.”

Sherlock just glares at him whilst Maisy clambers around on his lap and grabs at the lapels of his dressing gown, trying to reach for his chin. Sherlock sighs and closes his eyes, gathering Maisy closer against him and burying his face in her shoulder. Q smiles sadly.

“Have you told that errant double oh how you feel about him yet?”

Q takes a moment to tug together his patience and swallows on the lingering frustration in his throat, shaking his head once, not bothering to deny it to Sherlock, who will see straight through him regardless.

“I’m not on speaking terms with him at the moment.”

“What did he do?”

“Irrelevant.”

Sherlock snorts as Q repeats his own word back to him, finally letting Maisy up where she’s wriggling.

“What would you do?” Sherlock frowns, “if it was him?”

“James was in the Navy a long time ago,” Q says, “and he’s constantly leaving the country for potential life and death situations.”

“How do you deal with it?”

“I don’t,” Q laughs, exasperated and almost elated under the weight of the emotional drain of the past twenty-four hours, “he scares me shitless on a weekly basis. Its why I’m so furious with him right now.”

“So I just have to let it happen?”

“I can oversee some of John’s missions,” Q insists, a determination to his tone that makes Sherlock raise his eyebrows, “they can safeguard the comm equipment all they like but they’ll have a job keeping me out of his ear.”

“You don’t have military experience or clearance.”

“Has that ever held me back before?”

Sherlock just smirks in agreement as he sits up a little straighter, clearly a little comforted by the assurance that Q will be able to check up on John and or help keep him alive.

“Now be a good lad and keep an eye on her whilst I take a very long nap.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long!
> 
> Things have been hectic and I'm currently in High Wycombe supporting a friend through a bad break up. But at least I got this up eventually. 
> 
> Let me know what you think, and as always, thanks! <3

As fate would have it, Q sleeps through the night in Sherlock’s bed. He hears his brother moving around in the living room intermittently and Maisy wakes up around three for a feed, but when he stumbles upright to stand in the doorway, Sherlock is already in the kitchen with her sorting her out, so he turns and goes back to sleep.

He can hear John coming in around four, another set of footsteps following him, although it doesn’t bother Q; he knows it’s probably just John’s army friend.

It’s when he wakes up in the morning that he decides his life is just far too strange for him to ever try predicting anything.

He’s eating his toast and sipping a cuppa with Maisy in his lap when John comes down, rubbing at his head and looking tired but otherwise okay. What really makes Q splutter and nearly fall out of his chair, is the very amused looking James Bond that follows him.

He’s dressed in one of John’s t-shirts and a borrowed pair of cotton bottoms, not even a little bit hungover – the benefits of being a functioning binge drinker – and simply takes Maisy from Q’s lap to sit on his own stool opposite them.

“Good morning, princess,” James says, pressing a sloppy kiss to Maisy’s cheek and accepting the bottle from a very rarely dumbfounded Sherlock.

“Shit,” John groans, slumping over the counter and waving one hand half-heartedly “sorry; Q, Sherlock, this is James. We knew each other when we were serving at the same time.”

“We’re… acquainted,” James says, his voice still a little rough with sleep. Q remains completely clueless, mouth open, eyes wide, brain unable to produce coherent sentences.

“Well this is an interesting development,” Sherlock recovers quickly, sitting down beside Q and snapping a picture of his face. This knocks Q out of it and he glares at his brother, anger creeping back in through the shock.

“I swear to god,” Q says breathlessly, “I hate you.”

“So you’ve said,” James remarks nonchalantly, and John looks confused, raising his eyebrows and immediately wincing at the way it nudges at his headache.

“Did you know about this?”

“Not until John told me about Sherlock last night,” James shrugs, “Holmes isn’t a particularly common name in London.”

“I feel like I’m missing something.”

“Just eat your breakfast, John,” Sherlock says with a small smile as Maisy lets out a particularly loud gurgle.

“I – this is – this doesn’t make any _sense_ ,” Q insists, shaking his head and rubbing at his sleepy eyes, as though things will look very different when he opens his eyelids again.

“I’m with you on that one, mate,” John sighs, as Sherlock hands him two ibuprofen and he takes them with his tea.

“It’s pretty simple,” James tells Q, “myself and John are old friends. I had no idea he was living with Sherlock or that he even knew you.”

Q blinks a few times and lets out a long, grounding breath, running one hand through his morning mess of dark curls, wetting his lips as James jiggles Maisy on his knee.

“What are you even doing here?”

“We went out for a few drinks last night. I’m suspended, remember?” James says, and Q gets the distinct impression that he’s teasing him, deliberately winding him up, as usual.

“I’m still furious with you.”

“I don’t doubt,” James says, his expression turning slightly more serious, “I can go.”

“And make me the bad guy; go ahead.”

“You aren’t the-”

“Shhhhhh,” John hisses, sticking one finger in the air, abruptly ending their budding tiff, “mornings are for caffeine and contemplation. I won’t have you pissing on each other in front of your niece.”

“She’s not James’ niece-”

“Simon Holmes, so help me god,” John narrows his eyes.

“Your name is _Simon_?” James laughs.

“Fu-”

“Stop it all of you,” Sherlock snaps, “little ears present.”

Q shuts his mouth but continues glaring.

“Someone please explain like an adult,” John requests.

Q draws in a sharp breath through his nose and bows his head, resting it in his hands.

“Simon here-”

“Don’t. Call. Me. That.”

“Q here,” James corrects himself respectfully, “is my Quartermaster at MI6. We’re friends.”

“We are not.”

“Oh c’mon, Q, you can’t still be-”

“I most certainly can, 007,” Q narrows his eyes again, “do not underestimate my ability to hold a grudge.”

“I don’t,” James snorts, “the last time you didn’t talk to me for two months.”

“Waaaaaaaaait,” John says, “is this the lad at work you have an incorrigibly embarrassing crush on?”

James clears his throat awkwardly and looks pointedly at John. Q flushes red at this revelation, and Sherlock just reaches over the counter to nudge Maisy’s hand back into place where her bottle has slipped from her mouth.

“I’m suspended for six weeks on Q’s orders.”

“Did you tell him _why_ you’re suspended?” Q asks through gritted teeth, barely recovering.

“I did actually. I accept full responsibility for my fuck ups, as you well know.”

“Well at least you admit that you fucked up-”

“Gents,” John interrupts them again, “baby in the room.”

Instead of continuing to argue, James avoids making eye contact with Q and lifts Maisy against his chest, bouncing her slightly as he takes her to the living room for a change. Q swears he disassociates for a moment, totally taken aback by the sudden merging of his personal and professional life.

Although, when he holds himself accountable, its not like the lines have been very clear for a long time now. James is without a doubt one of is best friends in the world, as well as his inferior at work. He’s become a regular fixture in both Q and Maisy’s life, and despite being absolutely furious with him at the moment, Q trusts James indomitably.

He’s thought a lot about how important it is that James trusts him, but he hasn’t really thought about how big of a deal it is that he actually trusts him back.

Q… Q has always been an introvert. He can count the friends he’s had in his lifetime on one hand, and two of those are his brothers, even with all their drama. He’s a very smart man, with one of the highest IQs in the country, possibly even the world, and as a result of his mother’s behaviour when he was a child, Q is a very suspicious, weary person when it comes to letting people in.

The fact that James is one of those people is fucking hilarious to him.

Only Q could pick one of the most unpredictable forces of nature for his best mate.

“Dlaczego to jest moje życie?” Q grumbles, dropping his head to the counter in front of him.

“I think you’re overreacting,” Sherlock remarks, as John clears up the breakfast dishes and James returns with Maisy, who is now sucking happily on her dummy.

“I think we ought to get going, don’t you?”

“We’re – I’m not going anywhere with you. I’m still-”

“Yes, I know, you’re still angry. But I’m sure there are things at home you need to do, and I don’t doubt there’s some sort of criminal these two bastards are supposed to be chasing down freelance.”

John huffs, looking betrayed that they’d leave him to Sherlock’s inability to sit still when he’s hungover and tired. But Q knows James is right.

He grits his teeth, lets out a breath through his nose, and stands stiffly, taking Maisy from James and going to get dressed.

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More revelations, a bit of angst, but ultimately we end up with fluff, of course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well look at that, I managed to push through writers block to write another chapter. 
> 
> Enjoy, let me know what you think, and as always, thank you.
> 
> Dee xx

Q draws in a deep breath as Bond returns to the room.

He doesn’t have to look at him to know something has changed.

In the last ten minutes, something has happened that has made James’ demeanour steely and cold, and Q can almost taste the fury in the air. He swallows and grits his teeth for a moment, before he checks his phone for messages from HQ, and slips it back in his pocket, finally turning.

“Alright,” he says, “what is it?”

“Project V,” James’ voice is arctic, his blue eyes burning brumal as they meet Q’s, and it’s all he can do to repress a shudder. Instead, he holds his ground, pushing down the panic and nodding once.

“What about it?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Quartermaster,” James snaps, “I know you better than that. Or at least I thought I did.”

“I have never lied to you,” Q says, mentally noting where all of his guns are hidden in the room nonetheless.

“Lying by omission is still lying.”

“Debatable,” Q remarks, giving his own voice a cold quality so as not to appear affected or cautioned by James’ rage, “although I didn’t omit anything either. I didn’t know her.”

“You forget I’ve been doing this for three decades more than you.”

“This isn’t about who’s is bigger, 007. I’m not lying to you. I did not know her. She – she was… unknowable.”

James scoffs, and it sounds like a quiet crackle of thunder in his throat. Q wets his lips, one hand still in the pocket of his slacks. The fingers on his left hand slide up his own sleeve and touch on the knife sheathed there, just in case.

“She was your blood relative, Q.”

“James-”

“Just fucking tell me,” he says, “I’m sick of you bullshitting. Just tell me how you knew Vesper.”

“She was my cousin.”

There’s a drawn-out minute of silence in which all that can be heard is laboured breathing and Q’s heartbeat in his ears. He doesn’t think he’s been so on edge in his entire life.

“Explain.”

“I met her once, when I was nineteen. They tried to send her in as extraction; they thought because I was related to her, I’d be more likely to trust her. I don’t know whether that was an underestimation or an overestimation. The point is, I didn’t. She knew it, which was why she didn’t really try. She talked for a bit, but when it became clear I’d kill her in cold blood if she didn’t let me leave, she stepped aside and told MI5 she’d try again when the time was right. I suppose she thought that doing me a solid like that would make me more placid in the long run. She was wrong again.”

“How – what was your relation to her?”

“She was my mother’s niece,” he tells him, shrugging, “hence the similarities in our appearance.”

James winces as though Q has already stabbed him, and is twisting the knife. Q, for once, can actually read his thoughts on his face. He’s pissed off with himself more than anything, Q knows, for not seeing this himself much sooner, the moment they met really. The pale skin, the raven hair and lithe build. The quick tongue.

Holmes traits through and through.

“I never felt much for her, aside from contempt. You know I despise my mother, and I always saw Vesper as the enemy. I suppose I respected her intelligence, and it – it wasn’t until I met you and read her story in your file that I saw the similarities in our disposition too. I suppose we… we both have weaknesses for dangerous, broken men that can see straight through our facades.”

James swallows and Q can follow the movement in his temple, his jaw, and his throat; tight and restrained. Q’s hand leaves the knife and he draws in a shuddery breath, nodding.

“I wish I could tell you more, but there’s nothing else,” Q says honestly, “there’s – there is nothing I can say to make you trust me.”

James just scoffs and shakes his head again, ducking it for a moment before he looks back up again. The intensity there breaks Q’s heart.

“I trust you, Q,” James tells him, “that’s the damn problem. I know you’re telling the truth now. It would be petty for me to tell you I don’t trust you.”

“I lied to you.”

“Yes, you did,” James says, “so here we are, both furious.”

“What do we do?”

“What we always do,” James sighs, running one hand through his hair, “we’re British; we get on with it anyway. And stop preparing yourself for defence; I’m – fuck, I’m angry, but I’m not going to _hurt_ you.”

“When she handled you, she wrote in her report that your loyalty and trust didn’t mean you wouldn’t lash out.”

James snorts, but moves to sit on the edge of the bed, back arched forward. He looks absolutely wrecked, and Q’s heart is still hammering against the inside of his ribcage.

“Maybe she was right,” James shrugs, defeated, “maybe I am the most unpredictable person on the planet, maybe that makes me nothing but a mask.”

“You’re not unpredictable,” Q finally moves to sit beside him, resting his hand on James’ knee, “it isn’t that I don’t trust you. But the people in my life have always been volatile creatures; I know it’s in their nature to spark at any time, and I’m used to thinking ahead of it.”

“We’re spies, Q,” James tells him, his voice tired and croaky, the edge of anger still there, “I get that this is what we’re trained to do, me more than anyone. But you have to know, it’s fucking important that you understand, there’s nothing you could do, nothing you could lie about that would make me hurt you.”

“You’re not going to let me off the hook easily, are you?”

“I doubt it,” James finally smirks; its bitter and worn, but there all the same, and for the moment, it releases some of the tension building in Q’s bones.

“Good,” Q says, “that would be boring.”

“Never,” James whispers, nudging him. Q rolls his eyes, smiling despite himself.

“I suppose it’s too early to say call it even?”

“Let’s just… let’s get through John leaving first, okay?” James insists, “then we can talk about this properly.”

* * *

 

Q doesn’t ask about it when James wordlessly makes them both coffee and follows him out onto the balcony for a cigarette when he puts Maisy down.

He doesn’t make a comment when they both crawl into bed and switch out the lights either. He does lay there for a good two hours though, staring at the ceiling in the dark, trying to figure out of he regrets not telling James about Vesper, if he’d do it differently given half the chance.

He decides there’s no point, eventually, in dwelling on pointless questions. Life is a series of moments in which different decisions can be made, all of which will have impossibly unpredictable outcomes. This is just one of them, but he can’t change it now, and as far as aftermaths go, this is not bad at all.

At least, James is asleep beside him, his muscled outline strangely ethereal under the shadow of moonlight shining in through the balcony doors. Q turns onto his side to face James’ back, frown creasing his brow. His fingers steeple the pillow next to his head before he sighs and reaches out, tips softly grazing the scarred curve of James’ shoulder.

His heart does a flip in his chest, and he has to swallow on a lump in his throat. He knows he’s in deep, knows there’s no way out, that there hasn’t been for a while, that he’s been avoiding this as it consumed him, invaded his world, his home, his body.

There’s still so much James doesn’t know, so much history. Nothing Vesper related; Q had truly told him everything he could regarding that matter, but everything else is still trapped under carefully guarded lock and key. But Q feels like the chains are being loosened slowly, like in James’ missions where he breaks his wrist to get out of them.

It’s inevitable.

His thoughts are interrupted however, when James huffs and shifts back into Q, taking his arm and dragging it around his own waist, settling there.

Sighing, Q closes his eyes finally, relaxing into the hold and allowing himself a small breathy laugh at being the one to big spoon the world’s most dangerous assassin.

“Shut up,” James grumbles, “I’m cold.”

Q laughs again, but buries his face in James’ neck and melts, settling down to sleep.

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ducks, peaches, and hacking. A normal day in the life of a spy. 
> 
> Oh, and James finally gets a mission, but he's not all that happy about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on a bit of a roll, so have the night's second chapter. 
> 
> Enjoy, let me know what you think, and as always, thank you. 
> 
> Dee xx

When James wakes up, it’s to Maisy’s hands grabbing at his nose, and her dribble on his chin. He raises his eyebrows, squinting around the room.

The space beside him is empty.

He sits up carefully, moving Maisy to his lap where the sheets pool, and reaching over to the bedside table for his phone. Rolling his eyes, he types off a quick reply.

Putting his phone back down, he gives the very awake ten-month-old on his thighs his full attention.

After a lively game of hide and seek in which James videos Maisy giggling on his phone, he moves them to the kitchen, putting her in her high chair and giving her a soft peach to suck on whilst she watches Mike the Knight.

Sitting at the table with her nursing his own cup of coffee, he starts up Q’s leisure laptop and hacks into it easily, snorting when Q texts him again.

“Uncle Simon doesn’t appreciate my hacking skills,” James remarks, and Maisy frowns at him.

“Unca Unca!”

“Yeah,” James nods, grinning at her, “sure. Jesus you’re messy.”

He cleans up her chin with a wet wipe and tuts, returning to Q’s screen as he attempts to get into MI6’s database, looking for something that might clue them in on why Q has been called in so early on his day off. It comes up blank and he huffs in defeat, logging off again.

When Maisy starts tearing chunks from the peach and throwing them at him instead of putting them in her mouth, he takes it off her. Cleaning up the table, he runs her a bath and gets rid of all the sticky fruit residue.

It’s only when he’s changing her that he realises he’s actually spent the morning looking after her with no problems at all. He’s genuinely wiping a baby’s ass in his pyjamas, a sick towel draped over his shoulder, like its second nature.

No complaining, no thinking about how much he misses being on an assignment, no boredom induced disaster ideas. Just stupid children’s tv, laughter, and coffee. And he likes it. It sits in his chest like warm honey, like a strange sort of freedom, like… love.

Love.

Shit. _Of course_ he loves Maisy, loves looking after her. Of course he does. She’s perfect. Loud, messy, completely oblivious to most things; but absolutely perfect. How could anyone not fall in love with her? Abruptly, as he fastens her nappy and sits her back on the bed to get dressed, a wave of fierce determination slams into him; he’ll protect this tiny human and her big wide eyes and grabby little fingers with his life. Her uncle too, even if he is incredulously angry with him at the moment.

* * *

 

He's crouched by the duck pond taking a self-indulgent selfie with Maisy between his legs when his phone rings.

“Bloody finally; what’s M been doing to you all this time? Its nearly midday.”

“James,” Q says, the serious edge to his tone flicking him into work mode immediately, “you need to come in.”

“That’s vague and menacing. I thought I was on disciplinary leave?”

“Drop Maisy of with Sherlock and get here as soon as you can. You’re off leave as of two hours ago. I’ll explain when you get here.”

“Yes, Quartermaster,” James says, nodding to himself more than anything as he settles Maisy on his hip and stands back up to full height, “I’ll be there soon.”

“Is she alright?”

“All good,” he says, “happy as larry, aren’t you princess?”

“Ya!”

“See,” James smiles, despite the adrenaline starting up in his veins, “give me half an hour.”

“Thank you.”

“What the bloody hell for? You know she’s no trouble.”

“See you soon.”

“Quartermaster,” James says, hanging up. He closes his eyes for a moment, pressing his nose to Maisy’s head, thumb wrapped up in her strong grip, committing the smell of talcum powder and the sound of ducks quacking to memory. If he doesn’t come back from wherever they’re sending him, which is always a possibility, he wants to have something in his head that reminds him he’s human, that he isn’t always a weapon.

“Right, Princess,” he says a moment later, grinning at her, “let’s get you to your uncle Sherlock’s. Would you like that?”

“Yayeya!”

“Good, because you don’t get a choice in the matter,” he laughs a little, putting her back in the pram and heading for the street he’s parked in.

* * *

 

“No,” James shakes his head where he stands near a chair around the large conference table. Q sighs and pushes his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, huffing when James glares at him, “absolutely bloody not; he’ll crumble.”

“Thank you for the vote of confidence, 007,” Q remarks coldly, and James narrows his eyes.

“You know what I mean. You hate field work, you’re no good at it.”

“Just because I hate field work doesn’t mean I’m not perfectly capable of lying in someone’s face-”

“Oh yes, I’m well aware of that, thank you, Quartermaster-”

“Have your lovers quarrel on your own time, Gentlemen, not at work. Bond, I am not asking you to approve of this.”

“Good, because I don’t.”

“That may be, but it changes nothing. Q is the best person for this job, and I would not be sending him in if I didn’t think he could pull it off.”

“He hates flying.”

“I am still in the room, 007. And yes, I hate flying; but I can endure when the situation calls for it.”

James seethes in quiet for a few seconds, feeling cornered and pissed off, hating that he has no argument, hating that this decision has been made without consulting him, hating that he knows they’re both right.

“What about Maisy?” James asks, adjusting his stance. Q’s eyes darken slightly and he goes a bit stiff, but when he talks, its measured and professional.

“She’ll be staying with my friend Molly,” Q informs, “she’s a forensic investigator at Scotland Yard, and I trust her with my life. She has strict instructions not to let anyone else look after her, and she’ll have a security detail assigned to her around the clock.”

“Does Mycroft-”

“Mycroft is involved in this operation,” Q cuts him off, before James can use that particular pressure point, “he was the one that suggested my expertise be utilised. And that you be assigned as… well, my bodyguard.”

There’s another few seconds in which no one says anything and everyone quietly seethes for separate reasons.

“If you don’t think you’ll be up to the job-”

“Don’t bloody start,” James snaps, finally sitting down in the chair and grumpily dragging the manila file towards himself, “you know full well I’m coming with you, whether I want to or not. No one else can put up with you.”

“Charming,” Q remarks, but there’s less tension in his shoulders, and he shares a split-second look of mild amusement with M when he thinks James isn’t looking. The little shits. Still, James thinks, he has been whining about needing a mission for a month now. How bad could it be?


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mission planning gets underway, and we meet R properly! She's going to be popping up more and more in the next ten chapters or so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think, feel free to ask questions; on here, or on tumblr (my URL is snakesandcocacola) and always, thank you <3
> 
> Dee xx

Q huffs as he stands back up to full height, hands on his hips as he stretches out and cracks his neck, feeling his back audibly click and settle.

He smiles briefly as R hands him a large mug of strong black coffee, and he takes a moment to look around the room.

The long glass table is almost completely covered in wires of varying thickness hooked up to several laptops, criss crossing amongst the half-organised chaos. Manic analysts and excited but very nervous interns type away at the speed of light, eyes fixed on screens, passing each other different parts of tech like second nature. Superiors bend over them, directing them to their crucial programs and helping them code the more complicated algorithms and hack different CCTV cameras on the other side of the world.

Q and R have been working on a brand new, updated facial recognition software, one with a bigger database that’s connected to almost every intelligence agency in the world. The remaining governments who have been pushing for more in negotiations in the past few months have accepted proceedings instead, and simply let them in.

What he finds most interesting however, is that with the group of around thirty people in the room, all extremely skilled and dedicated individuals, still seem to gravitate around him, like he’s the centre of orbit. They’re all working their own tasks, but they’re tasks set by him, overseen by him. He never goes without a hot drink and ibuprofen if needed. He’s very aware that they’re all watching him out of the corner of their eyes, making sure he’s alright, making sure he’s got everything he needs, making sure he’s able to do his job so they can keep doing theirs.

This, he thinks, is why he loves being Q, and why he keeps doing it. He could have given up when Silva got into their systems; head hung in shame and tail between his legs. But in the moments where he thinks it’s too heavy, too scary, too much responsibility, he looks down into the pit, sees all these clever, hardworking, beautiful people who all look to him for guidance, who respect him more than he’s ever been respected in his entire life; and he remembers. There’s a reason he knows all their names and backgrounds. How can he possibly leave them? They’re part of him now. He owes them his service.

He closes his eyes softly for a second, as a warm, strong hand settles against the small of his back, moving sideways to squeeze gently at his waist. The stiff coldness that’s been creeping into his bones for the past three hours gets cancelled out by the touch, and a more lingering, comfortable smile twitches at his mouth.

“C’mon,” James says, “fag break,” he calls loudly. At least half of them immediately dash for bags and pockets, and the rustling of tobacco pouches fills the room, grateful noises following, muttered ‘thank god’s curving around filter tips between lips, and Q rolls his eyes, nodding as James rolls for them both.

“Twenty minutes,” M tells them all from his desk at the helm near the large glass windows overlooking the Thames, but goes for his own pouch of Cutters Choice, a secret smile on his face.

The small booth rooved by plastic panels on the other side of the floor fills with stressed MI6 agents cracking their fingers and letting out soft, relieved noises as smoke flows from noses and mouths. Q leans against the balcony with James beside him.

“I know you’re not happy with this,” Q says once the rest of the tension has left his body, “but it has to happen.”

“I’m aware,” James replies, raising one eyebrow, “I think we got a little too used to domesticity.”

“That’s something I never thought I’d hear you say,” Q snorts, sipping at his coffee.

“This is why I fucking hate disciplinary leave. It’s too comfortable.”

“You deserved it,” Q insists, smirking mirroring James’.

“It was hardly a punishment. That’s the damn problem.”

“I think there’s a nice sentiment in there, 007.”

“Ha bloody ha,” James rolls his eyes, “you know exactly what I mean.”

“I do,” Q grins, “and I love you for it, but this is our job. It’s what we do.”

“It’s what _I_ do. You have Maisy to think about. If you die, she’ll have no one. They can’t give her to your bothers; they’re not in the situation to look after a baby.”

“You have Maisy to think about too,” Q insists, “you’re as much a part of her life as me and my brothers. She needs her Uncle James too.”

“Jesus,” James laughs breathily, and Q can hear a slight crack in his voice as he ducks his head, shaking it, “it’s only a fag break.”

“You brought it up,” Q shrugs, laughing too, feeling emotional all of a sudden, but welcoming it, a nice break from being in work mode all day, “we’ll both come back from this.”

“Yes,” James says, nodding once, solidly, “we will. We have to.”

“I booked the plane tickets for late evening,” Q tells him, “so we can still see John off in the morning.”

James just nods again, taking a long drag on his cigarette and lifting a hand to the back of Q’s neck, squeezing softly again and pressing a kiss to his temple before stubbing it out and leaving to go back to the room.

“Is everything okay?” R asks him, appearing at his side. She hates second hand smoke, so he knows she's come up here just to check on him. Q snorts and flicks his eyebrows upward, letting her wrap her arms around his waist, leaning against his left. He rests his cheek against her crown on top of her hijab and lets out a long, deep breath.

“I think so,” Q replies, “or it will be.”

“Good,” she says, “because if he hurts you, I’ll have to kill him and that’s haram.”

Q laughs again, light and airy and genuine, despite the exhaustion echoing in his chest, shadowed by latent anxiety.

“I don’t know what you’re implying.”

“Liar,” she whispers, and he grins, shaking his head, “liar in denial.”

“Blasphemy, I never lie. Its haram after all.”

“You’re cute, Q, and also an idiot.”

“Thanks, darling, I love you too.”

She digs her fingers into his ribs, but he knows that’s her confirmation, and stays like that for long after he’s flicked his cig away, letting her warmth and humour calm the tremours of doubt gripping at his lungs.

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry.

John’s absolutely fucking terrified if he’s being honest.

He’s also very tired. He’s been tossing and turning all night, before finally settling on his back, staring up at the ceiling, glancing intermittently out of his window, committing the soft mattress and the image of Baker Street outside to memory.

Sherlock has been quiet since he woke up too. Not a word. No deductions, no orders for a mug of tea. He’s not even playing with his telescope. He’s just sat there in his chair, dressed in his suit like he’s going to a funeral. John wants to scream.

He wants to yell and shout and throw things until his throat bleeds and his lungs hurt and his eyes pop out of his head.

But he just packs his bag. Nothing much, just a regulation toothbrush, his wallet, and sun cream. He hasn’t bought sun cream for years.

His hands don’t shake as he checks his phone repeatedly for texts that won’t mean anything, knowing he’ll have to leave it on the kitchen counter when he leaves. Leaves it all behind.

He’s calm.

And it hurts.

“Lestrade is going to give you a case on Monday,” John tells Sherlock, moving around, needlessly tidying the living room, knowing Sherlock will only mess it up later. He avoids looking at the smiley face and bullet holes in the wall, “my gun is in the drawer in my bedroom.”

“I know,” Sherlock replies, voice agonisingly neutral, breathtaking glasz eyes fixed on the apartments across the street.

“I’ve emptied the cupboards of the pain pills; there are no narcotics anywhere, and you’re not going to get any more.”

Sherlock just waves a hand at him. Irrelevant.

“You have an appointment for a drugs test once a week at the surgery. If you don’t turn up, Q gets a text and he’ll make you go.”

Sherlock’s jaw twitches but he doesn’t respond, and John lets out a long breath, finally moving to sit in his own chair opposite him.

“Sherlock,” he says, “I know there’s a lot we haven’t-”

“John,” he cuts him off, eyes snapping to his and making him jump slightly, “please, it doesn’t need to be said.”

John stares back at him for a dragging moment, heart aching in his chest, feeling as though the pain will explode inside of him and bleed out through his eyes and mouth. But it doesn’t. It just sits there, brittle against the inside of his ribs, rattling in the breath that escapes his lips.

“You have to be prepared,” he tells him, “this might not end well. I know I came back before, but we hadn’t met then, and so much has happened. Syria is different.”

“Every warzone is different,” Sherlock says, and his voice is still so… solid, it almost makes John angry, “and the same.”

“I – you know I love you, don’t you?” he chokes out, sitting forward in his chair, “more than anyone else in the world.”

“You’re being stupid,” Sherlock snaps, finally cracking slightly, “there is no sense in this. Saying goodbye is useless, it isn’t the goodbye that matters.”

“Right,” John nods, swallowing tightly on the lump in his throat and blinking on the hot wetness in his eyes, “it’s the hello.”

“Right,” Sherlock says, “and you have lives to save. Business as usual.”

John sees then, why Sherlock is being so still, so straight backed. He’s almost more of a soldier than he is right now, and its all for his benefit. Normalising an impossibly unnormal situation.

“Its time,” John says, “you’re still coming to the airport, right?”

“No,” Sherlock speaks, and the word is a punch to the gut.

“What?” he demands, “why?”

“Do you want my honest answer?”

“Please.”

“I can’t,” Sherlock admits, eyes softening, the man John knows slipping in through the façade, “if I go to the airport with you, I won’t let you leave. And you have to. They’ll have to tranquilise me, and it will make everything worse.”

John closes his eyes again and swallows once more, heavier this time, breathless with fear and grief. He takes a moment to make sure his legs wont collapse beneath him, and stands, Sherlock standing with him.

“Very well then,” Sherlock says, “I suppose I shall see you soon.”

John lets out a broken, breathless laugh and ducks his head for a second before lifting it again and stepping forward, lifting his hands to bring Sherlock down to him, pressing their foreheads together, the desperation and dread in the air palpable. But there’s something else there too, something coded into John’s DNA now. Its beautiful and it lives in his every pulse, in every heartbeat, in every breath he takes. Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. His Sherlock.

That’s not going away. That will be with him forever. The both of them. In Baker Street, solving crimes and falling in love.

John can’t bring himself to care about anything else as he catches Sherlock’s bottom lip between his own, the kiss heated and lingering and the touch of paint that brings colour to every inch of his world, sets his blood on fire like no bomb that’s ever exploded.

When he opens his eyes again, there are warm tears on Sherlock’s cheeks and he gulps down on the worst sort of anguish he’s ever experienced. His hand curls in the back of Sherlocks hair, squeezing once, before stepping around him and lifting his duffle bag from beside the door, refusing to let himself pause for a second.

Pain blows up in his diaphragm as he sprints down the stairs, small, silent sobs cracking from his mouth as he struggles to breathe, feeling like he’s running through fog.

Then the door to 221B Baker Street shuts behind him, and Syria awaits.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back with a bang....

Maisy’s crying draws Q from his restless sleep and he sighs heavily, rolling over all the way across the bed and blindly padding across the hall to her bedroom.

“Alright,” he says, lifting her carefully from her cot and gathering her against him, lightly bouncing her, hand stroking the back of her head, “shhh, it’s alright. Are you hungry?”

She just keeps crying and he goes to the kitchen, making her up a bottle. If someone had told him last year that he’d sat at the kitchen table at four in the morning trying to keep his eyes open whilst a tiny human kicks at his legs and sucks, wide awake, on a bottle of milk, he’d have changed their Netflix password just for the bad joke. Now, he can’t really imagine spending his mornings any differently.

As hard as it is, as exhausting as it is; for every hour he spends half-sobbing into her neck begging her to stop crying, there’s a minute where the sun comes up and he’s about to give up the ghost, tell Mycroft he can’t do it, can’t cope anymore, and she looks up at him and smiles like there’s not a single ugly thing left in the world.

And he can’t believe how incredibly, wonderfully, elatedly lucky he is.

The fact that he has to leave her in a few hours and walk into a situation he might not walk back out of, has him almost choking for air.

“Now listen,” he says, adjusting her so she’s facing him at eye level “I have to go away for a little while, but I promise I will do everything I can to come back. But whilst I’m gone, you’re going to be with Aunty Molly.”

“Mooooyyyeeeeeeeee!!!”

“Yes,” he smiles, eyes crinkling as he presses a kiss to her forehead, “moyee.”

* * *

 

Q’s heart rate, he notes to himself, is steady as his fingers as they flit across the keyboard. In the next forty-eight hours, he will change the world; and he is calm. Calmer than he’s ever been.

James lifts their bags without saying anything, and Q stands, barely registering the voice sounding through the speakers telling them they’re due to board their flight, and taking his laptop with him, continuing to type with one hand. They have their boarding passes and tickets on hand already, both under fake names, and the attendant gives them a simple nod of understanding as her eyes scan the documents and she lets them through without question.

The identities are solid, but if there’s any indication that they’re falsified, no one says anything, as it should be. James guides Q to their seats and he doesn’t even pause as they step over the line to the plane, realising only momentarily that this is the point of no return.

“Everything in order?”

“Of course,” Q replies quietly as James lifts their carry ons above their heads and sits beside him, getting comfortable. To anyone else settling down, they look like two normal men, perhaps tired from previous travel, introvertedly British as they don’t interact closely with anyone else, and as their cover story runs, husbands on their way home from a work-related trip.

Its two am.

In the next few hours, people from all over the world will fill up the front of the Whitehouse and the remaining living presidents will take their places in stands among various other political figures. A few flights over, Q knows, the PM and her husband are being loaded onto a private plane to be flown over ahead of proceedings. Only she is aware of the impending plan to be carried out by her two most skilled and deadly secret service agents; not even her security team have been informed, although they have been individually told of a possible need for quick action.

“Molly texted me a minute ago,” James murmurs as he hands Q a coffee cup and checks his phone for the third time in the past ten minutes, “Maisy woke up for her feed but she’s gone back down.”

“As expected,” Q replies, eyes following lines of code. He’s donned his glasses for contact lenses as part of a more inconspicuous appearance. He’s wearing a beanie and an oversized hoodie, look complete with his most torn pair of jeans and muddy converse high tops. James is dressed in a snapback and an FCUK t-shirt, black chinos, and Nike Airs. They blend in, as required, although Q smirks at the effort James is putting in to look at home in the scruffy get ups.

“Have a vodka lemonade,” Q suggests, “almost everyone aware of who you are knows you drink whiskey or martini.”

“Who says I was going to order alcohol?”

Q just keeps typing, and James narrows his eyes but doesn’t bite, doing as he’s told with grumpy indignation. A moment later, James nudges him, and Q watches his hands move in quick BSL.

‘ _Are you in contact_?’

‘ _Yes_.’

‘ _You’re leaking it, right_?’ James signs, ‘ _the second you send it to them_.’

‘ _I am_ ,’ Q replies, ‘ _if everything goes the way we want it to, it should go live all over the world before anyone’s even realised we’re in and out’_

‘This is insane. I hope you realise how astronomically insane this is. We’re not activists.’

‘ _Yes, we are_ ,’ Q signs impatiently, ‘ _we just wear suits_ ’

‘ _You disabled the cameras_?’

“Of course I did,” Q rolls his eyes, growing irritable with not having his fingers attached to his keyboard at all times, “I’m not an idiot.”

“Could’ve had me fooled,” James snorts, but for now there is little to do but wait.

* * *

 

Sherlock counters the ridiculous rules about addicts being in charge of babies, by turning up at Molly’s place to see Maisy instead.

He makes it all of two hours before he’s crawling out of his skin, heart thudding a jackhammer against his breast plate, skin dry and itchy, throat scratchy with the starved sensation gripping at his insides. His head goes round and round John, war, Afghanistan, heat 30 degrees centigrade, rain expected, tourniquet, time of death 4am, has to be the adopted sister, Q, Bond, Inauguration, USA, largest shooting in American history, assassination, WikiLeaks, Brian Cox, Kim Kardashian. Molly. Molly. Maisy, Maisy, Maisy.

The walk soothes him somewhat, and when he does get to her doorstep, he’s contained enough to not simply go crashing in, knocking politely.

“Sherlock! You-”

“Unca, Unca!!”

Sherlock can’t help the grin curling along his mouth as he drops to Maisy’s level and holds his arms out for her to tumble into him. He swallows tightly when he gathers her snugly against him, closing his eyes and burying his face in her tiny neck, breathing her in.

It’s okay. It’s okay. He’s not alone. He will not be left alone.

“Sherlock, this really isn’t-” Molly cuts herself off when she enters the lounge, breath catching in her throat. One arm goes around her middle, and her other hand comes to cover her mouth, a small noise of conflict escaping her lips.

“I need her,” Sherlock says, in a rare moment of unguarded emotion, “please, Molly, I need her. You can do a drugs test if you want, I’m clean and I don’t have anything on me. John – John left a little while ago and Q is out of the country too. I’m – I won’t get in your way, I promise. Just let me be here with her. Please.”

Molly simply holds the eye contact for a good thirty seconds, before she swallows and lets out a long breath, dropping her hand so she’s hugging herself, a small, sad smile grace her face now.

“Of course. Bloody hell, Sherlock. Of course. Just… I mean it when I say her safety is my main priority here.”

“It’s mine too,” he insists, as calmly as he can manage as Maisy’s small arms come up to curl around his neck, and she sniffs, sensing that something is wrong but intuitive enough not to start asking questions. She can barely string a sentence together on a good day anyway. Which Sherlock is perfectly okay with right now.

“Good – that’s… that’s good. Just… I’ll make some tea, shall I?”

“No, I’ll do it,” Sherlock stops her, lifting Maisy with him as he stands. “I think I owe you.”

“It’s a cup of tea, Sherlock,” she snorts slightly, relaxing regardless, and rolling her eyes, gesturing to the kitchen, “but lead the way. And if I find a single non-attached body part-”


End file.
